


Beyond the Machine

by smolfuriousbi



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Androids, Angst, Bonding, Bromance, Connor doesn't remember signing up for feelings, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fowler wtf were you thinking, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Post-Canon, Post-Game, Protective Hank, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-05-22 00:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14925935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolfuriousbi/pseuds/smolfuriousbi
Summary: “Okay, let me run this by you one more time, just in case I’m missing anything. We’ve had more than fifty separate missing person cases stemming from the same three-block radius in the last month. Somehow, we have no witnesses, no physical evidence, no suspects, and no pattern between the victims, other than them all being androids. Our only lead is an unlicensed number plate that Connor’s managed to narrow down to a national park in Canada, spanning over 2500 square miles. And now you’re suggesting that I take the only android detective in the DPD, on an undercover sting operation, completely blind, with little to no back-up or communication, to a remote location, where we’ll pretend this bucket of bolts is not only a perfectly functional human-being, but also my son, in order to infiltrate and expose what might either be the world’s most fanatic robot-enthusiast, or a cult dedicated to the android eradication.”Captain Fowler crosses his arms and reclines back into his chair as the information settles in each of their minds.“Yeah, that about covers it. Any more questions?”(Based after the survivors/moral victory pacifist ending because that's self-care)





	1. Chapter 1

The fallout of Markus’ revolution has spread like wildfire; the topic of android deviancy capturing the attention of every media outlet in the world. The event is an instant matter of interest; sparking avid discussion among professionals and civilians alike, and Detroit becomes the most closely monitored and researched microcosm of activity on Earth.

There is an adjustment period that lasts for approximately a month in which many androids simply disappear into the general populace. As the new leader of their species, Markus fights for the implementation of laws and regulations that protects their rights. For the people of Detroit, the abolition of android segregation, cruelty, and slavery causes city-wide panic, triggered by fears of androids exacting their revenge. But, presumably following Markus’ pacifistic protest, very few reports of android-related violence are passed on to the DPD.  Statistic reports show that the majority of androids, having limited experience with independent thought, and knowing nothing else, just returned to their jobs (though now with newly enforced wages), or went into hiding.

Strangely enough, for a city that has suddenly become the epicentre of android civilization, Connor can’t help but notice that very little has changed. Relations between America and Russia remain tense, the threat of another war on the horizon is worryingly high, the red ice epidemic still runs rampant throughout Detroit, and more than ever, despite all that has happened, many humans maintain intense prejudice and distaste for androids.

The latter of which, is exactly how Connor finds himself in the middle of the Detroit Police Department, his LED blinking yellow as he compartmentalises the incredibly limited information provided by the debriefing.

Hank takes a deep, calming breath through his nose and squeezes his eyes shut as if his presence in Captain Fowler’s office is somehow physically ailing him, “Okay, let me run this by you one more time, just in case I’m missing anything.”

Connor doesn’t need to scan his partner to detect a notable increase in psychological stress.

“We’ve had more than fifty separate missing person cases stemming from the same three-block radius in the last month. Somehow, we have no witnesses, no physical evidence, no suspects, and no pattern between the victims, other than them all being androids. Our only lead is an unlicensed number plate that Connor’s managed to narrow down to a national park in Canada, spanning over 2500 square miles. And now you’re suggesting that I take the only android detective in the DPD, on an undercover sting operation, completely blind, with little to no back-up or communication, to a remote location, where we’ll pretend this bucket of bolts is not only a perfectly functional human-being, but also my _son_ , in order to infiltrate and expose what might either be the world’s most fanatic robot-enthusiast, or a cult dedicated to the android eradication.”

Captain Fowler crosses his arms and reclines back into his chair as the information settles in each of their minds.

“Yeah, that about covers it. Any more questions?”

Connor times a pause that lasts forty-six seconds and consists solely of Hank gaping at Fowler with an expression of utter disbelief before his partner manages to regain his composure.

“Just one. Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“You’ll be expected to be there for a month at most. If nothing else, just think of it as a holiday away from the city.”

Hank scoffs, “I don’t know what you do with your free time but vacationing with a bunch of cultists is not my idea of a holiday.”

“Hank, in case you’ve forgotten, you’re in no situation to be making complaints. You should be glad that I’m offering you a case, let alone that you still have your badge after the absolute chaos you and Connor caused.”

Hank’s eyes narrow and he tightly presses his lips together; probably in an attempt to halt the delivery of whatever sardonic comment is forming at the back of his mind. Instead, he glances over his shoulder at Connor.

“What about you. You’ve been awfully quiet. What’s your take on this?”

Connor is caught off guard by Hank’s active effort to include him into the discussion. A few months ago, Hank’s primary criticism was that Connor didn’t know when to shut up and fuck off.

He doesn’t want to disappoint Hank, but Connor also doesn’t really know what he is asking from him here.

Before the deviant event, this investigation would have violated precisely thirty-six of Detroit Police Department’s android-related regulations. But even back then, the Lieutenant had never been particular about the letter of the law. Currently, android criminology is a massive grey area, with many of these rules being recently rectified or removed. Connor himself was leaping multiple legal hoops just by existing as a detective.

The only present identifiable issue that Connor is wary of, is that Canada is still an android-free zone. That said, if the Captain is prepared to trust this mission to them, Connor can only assume that this is yet another case of special clearance that the department is willing to grant.

“Connor?”

Connor system jolts him into awareness, and he realizes he’s been standing there, blankly processing an answer for well over a minute.

“Sorry, uh…” He clears his throat – an odd action that he has no real reason to imitate, and responds, “Social integration was part of my original software design. I have a social module that was specifically designed to imitate and appeal to human emotion…”

Connor pauses. Ever since the deviant event, he’s found it increasingly challenging to differentiate his programming from behavioural glitches that he would describe as altogether more… human. Though, he classifies this information as too personal for him to be disclosing to his captain.

“There’s no reason I wouldn’t be able to blend in.” He concludes.

Hank raises an eyebrow, “No offense Connor, but subtlety isn’t exactly your strength.”

Frowning, Connor refrains from reminding Hank that he had successfully infiltrated a deviant base little more than a month prior to this meeting.

“Okay, let’s just say these people – whoever they are, do believe you. What are we supposed to do if you get cut up and start bleeding blue, or you somehow cross wires and short-circuit, or you’re forced to eat something and it fucks up your system. I struggle to change the contacts on my own phone. What do you expect me to do with a broken prototype android in the middle of the Canadian wilderness?”

“If you’re doing your jobs properly,” Fowler interjects, “Connor being damaged shouldn’t be a problem. And as for your other concerns, we have a leading technician who will equip Connor with everything it–“

Hank clears his throat loudly, and Fowler corrects himself in response to his scowl, “- _he,_ needs.”

Perhaps it’s because he’s used to it, but Hank seems more bothered by people’s dehumanization of Connor than Connor himself is. Connor appreciates the sentiment, though he doesn’t see much point in berating people every time they refer to him incorrectly.

“Look, the fact is, this is an incredibly delicate operation that needs to be dealt with smoothly. This … mass deviancy has triggered a whole lot of human-android tension-”

Now there’s an understatement if Connor’s ever heard one.

“-And a whole lot of fire, from a whole lot of people is going to be under my ass if this case doesn’t get solved. I understand the risks I’m putting Connor under as well as you, Hank. But I also know that his ability to be a literal walking forensic analyser that can communicate with the DPD from any location, at any time, is an advantage that far outweighs those risks.”

The Captain’s reasoning is sound. Hank however, remains stubbornly reluctant – his fingers tapping against the arm of his seat as he weighs the information.

“Everything’s already set in motion,” Fowler prods, “All that’s left up to you, is whether you’re in or not. If you’re unavailable, I’ll just assign detective Reed to the case instead.”

Connor stiffens; holds back a half-formed protest threatening to spill from his lips. He doesn’t want to think of doing the investigation without Hank, let alone having to pair with Reed. Their relationship has made very little progress from the time he had left him lying unconscious in the evidence room, and Connor has long given up on trying to make amends with the vitriolic man.

Hank takes one look at the distressed yellow-to-red flickering at Connor’s temple and rises from his seat, “Jeffrey you’re fucking delusional if you think I’m letting that little prick anywhere near this. Reed’s more likely to disassemble Connor himself than get anywhere with the case!”

“If you’re concerned for my safety Lieutenant, perhaps you should take the mission yourself.”

Hank fixes him with a cold glare.

Connor has never been very good at predicting the reason behind Hank’s more emotionally-charged objections or outbursts, but there’s something about Hank’s vehement protest to this mission that seems wrong. As if there’s something more troubling Hank than he’s letting on.

With more information, Connor would have a higher probability of discovering what this something is.

_PROCESSING BIOLOGICAL DATA….._

“I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on refusing this investigation. You claim that my inability to emulate human behaviour would somehow compromise the mission when, in reality, your socially-challenged and irritable temperament paired with your pessimistic views towards humans would be far more detrimental to the success of the investigation.”

“How the fuck am I socially-challenged?” Hank asks, his tone more intrigued than it is annoyed.     

_BIOLOGICAL SCAN COMPLETE….._  
BLOOD PRESSURE: 130/80mmHg  
RESTING HEART RATE: 78bpm  
_DIAGNOSIS: PREHYPERTENSION_

His agitation is evident, but Hank’s blood pressure remains steady. Connor hasn’t managed to poke him past his default level of pissed. Which means he has yet to hit what’s really bothering his partner.

Perhaps he should take this another direction.

“If you are in some way uncomfortable with the implications that come with faking an emotional attachment to me… I feel that it’s necessary to remind you that I don’t intend on acting as a replacement or substitute for your son, nor do I believe that it would be disrespectful to his mem-“

 Hank’s reaction is near-immediate.

“Okay, fuck you. I didn’t come here for a fucking psych-eval, you want to spend two weeks on a suicide-mission with Reed, you can be my guest. I would love to have the asshole out of my hair, but I’m not going to stand here and listen to this bullshit.”

True to his word, Hank heads for the door.

“Hank, stop right there!” Fowler calls after him, “I don’t remember dismissing you, Lieutenant!“

The door slams shut, and they watch from behind the glass wall as Hank throws up his middle finger and walks away; leaving Connor with nothing to go on other than the biological readings blinking away at the side of his vision.

_BLOOD PRESSURE: 160/80mmHg_  
RESTING HEART RATE: 92bpm  
_60% INCREASE IN CORTISOL HORMONE PRODUCTION – DETECTED INCREASE IN PSYCHOLOGICAL STRESS_

Fowler releases a heavy sigh, “You know Connor, for an android you have a truly amazing ability to provoke the ire of a man that’s borderline miserable and consistently agitated on even the best of his days.”

Connor opens his mouth. Closes it. Then settles on, “An astute observation, Captain.” And chases after his partner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Connor and Hank were officially given the go-ahead for the operation yesterday. Mission run-time is currently at twenty-one hours and thirteen minutes. They haven’t even left Detroit yet. It’s a little early to be having a gun pointed at Connor’s head again.

Hank is halfway through packing up his desk by the time Connor reaches him.

Connor relaxes against the table beside him, “Where exactly do you plan on going?”

“To a bar.” Hank answers, not bothering to turn or pause his movement.

Connor frowns, “At 10:43 in the morning?”

When Hank doesn’t deem the question worthy of a response, Connor pushes, “And here I thought your liver actually had a chance of making a recovery.”

“Do you have a point to make or are you just here to run your douchebag subroutines?”

“I wanted to apologise.”

Hank stops what he’s doing and swings to face Connor, his expression deadpan.

“I realise now that what I said was insensitive and… inappropriate under the circumstances. I hope it doesn’t influence your decision to go through with the mission.”

Connor senses that his sincerity is somewhat lost to Hank, as his partner simply stares at him with a look of what can only be described as aggravated disbelief.

“Yeah? Well, you’re in luck. It won’t influence my decision because the decision is already made.”

With that, Hank turns back around and continues what he’s doing. If he expects Connor to give up, he’s learned nothing.

“Okay.” Connor releases a long, exaggerated sigh, “That’s fine. It’s not like this case is particularly important anyway. I mean, there had to have been a lot of back work for this to be put together, and it’ll probably cost the precinct a small fortune to fund the investigation. Not to mention this is the highest rate of kidnappings the DPD’s ever had reported. But it’s not worth the time. They’re just androids, right?”

Hank smashes his fist against his desk then shoots up from his seat. Connor straightens, and takes a step back, “Hank? Uh…”

Stony-faced, Hank grabs hold of Connor’s tie and drags him across the precinct by his neck.

It’s somewhat telling of how often this happens that no one seems to pay any notice to Connor’s predicament. In fact, the only reaction they do receive is when Chris briefly glances up from his coffee to nod a greeting towards them.

“Havin’ a good morning Lieutenant?”

Hank ignores him, only pausing to open the door to the interrogation room and shove Connor forwards.

“If we’re going to talk about this, I need you to recognise that you’re an insufferable fucking smartass.”

“Acknowledged.”

Hank rests against the door and pinches the bridge of his nose, “This ‘investigation’ – it’s more death sentence than it is undercover operation. Are you aware that there has never once been evidence of a struggle – more than fifty androids and not one fuck-up. The only thing we know about anything, is that whoever’s doing this can identify and neutralize androids with zero effort.”

“Yes, I do have the ability to interpret information in a debriefing, just like you Lieutenant.”

“Goddamnit Connor,” Hank hisses, “Are you really going to make me say it?”

Connor’s head tilts to the side an inch, his face remaining blank. He’s not sure if Hank actually wants him to answer. Because, if so, then _yes. Please._ Connor doesn’t want to play at this anymore. This game that has no defined starting point and no apparent rules because humans are difficult grey areas and Connor can’t quite figure out how to play or how to talk about the issue and certainly not how to win.

Hank closes the distance between them and clutches the lapels of his suit, “If something goes wrong out there, we’re completely isolated. You get hurt I can’t do jack-shit to help you. You die, there’s no reset. There’s no running to CyberLife for back-up components, no uploading your memory into another model, no coming back. You die and you’re fucking dead Connor.”

Connor had wanted to elicit a reaction, but he hardly thinks the possibility of his death warrant the look of half-terrified intensity etched across Hank’s features.

“I understand that Hank, but I don’t see how it’s relevant to-“

“It’s relevant because I fucking care about you, asshole!”

The words leave an odd rush of warmth that pools into the pit of his stomach where his thirium regulator should be. And for a split-second Connor acknowledges the sensation as affection.

_..... SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED_

Startled, Connor instinctively pulls away from Hank and averts his gaze to the floor.

It’s wrong. Following Markus’ revolution, Connor’s system had been in a perpetual state of turmoil in the face of his newfound, indecipherable thoughts and emotions; the infinite possibilities and pathways suddenly opened to him. It’d been too much. Too many variables for him to predict the best possible course of action.

In truth, he was terrified. At the very edge of his consciousness, there was a nagging voice that sounded suspiciously like Amanda, reminding him that anyone close to Connor would be in danger.

Markus had made it clear that there was a place available to him in Jericho after the event, and Connor had considered it. But ultimately, something deep within Connor - something beyond lines of code - tells him that without Hank he’s lost. Because Hank matters to Connor is ways that aren’t quantifiable. Markus may have been the one to force him over the line of deviancy, but it’s Hank’s faith in him that allows Connor to believe he’s more than a machine.

 Hank takes priority over the mission, period. But Connor can’t let this go.

“I need this mission Hank.”

He had intended to voice the statement in a way that stated determination and absolute resolve. Instead, it comes out hesitant and lost.

“Explain to me why this is so important to you.” Hank’s voice is so genuinely concerned that something inside of Connor aches.

He almost doesn’t know where to start; his LED sporadically blinking yellow as he attempts to process the onslaught of information in a way that is comprehensible to Hank.

“I… Ever since the deviant event… I’m not sure how to describe it. It’s like something corrosive is gradually eating away at me. Initially, I thought it was some sort of system malfunction, but…” He shakes his head. Connor’s run the diagnostic scans. There’s never anything physically wrong with him.

“I hunted them down, Hank. I’ve tortured… killed deviants just for feeling something other than what they’re programmed to-”

Hank opens his mouth, but Connor cuts him off before he can protest, “-And it would be so simple to just be able to blame CyberLife. To hold them accountable for everything that happened… But I can’t. It was my choices. My hands.”

Connor lifts his head and meets Hank’s gaze, willing him to understand.

“These cases… they’re the only thing that seem to be able to alleviate this heavy feeling that’s weighing down on me. If I have a chance to somehow atone for what I’ve done… I owe my people at least that.”

If anything, Hank now looks even more perturbed than he had when they started this conversation; his eyebrows furrowed and jaw tight with tension. Connor backtracks to the main point of all this. States the information available to him with as much sincerity and simplicity as he can.

“We both know I can’t force you to come with me, but I would feel a lot better knowing my partner has my back.”

Something within Hank caves in the face of that declaration, and the most stubborn, hard-boiled detective in Detroit seems to deflate with a deep sigh, “Whoever said androids are designed to make your life easier owes me financial compensation.”

\-----

 

 

Connor and Hank were officially given the go-ahead for the operation yesterday. Mission run-time is currently at twenty-one hours and thirteen minutes. They haven’t even left Detroit yet. It’s a little early to be having a gun pointed at Connor’s head again.

He’s cleaning the dishes when Connor hears the resounding click of a revolver’s hammer being cocked back. He freezes, then steadily sets down the pan he’d been scrubbing.

“Hands where I can see them!” Hank’s voice calls from behind him.

It’s oddly comforting to know that if Connor is shot, it at least won’t be by some stranger that Connor failed to foresee.

Connor raises his arms above his head as he turns around slowly.

“Did you know that since I’ve been activated, exactly 73.6% of the time I’ve had a gun pointed at me, you’ve been the one behind the trigger.”

Hank looks as if he’s just rolled out of bed; heavy bags visible beneath his eyes and hair dishevelled. His gaze dart to Connor’s face, then moves down to scrutinize his clothing. His usual suit subbed out for the same outfit he’d used to infiltrate Jericho.

“For fuck’s sake Connor!” Hank yells, lowering the gun, “I thought I was being robbed – I could’ve shot you!”

Connor raises a concerned eyebrow, “You thought the assailant trying to rob you was washing your dishes?”

“Fuck off! I’m not a morning person.”

“Clearly.”

Hank approaches Connor and rips the hoodie of his jacket away from his head, “I assumed you’d still be getting operated on by the techies - what the hell are you wearing?”

 _‘-getting operated on’._ The department had called it _‘undergoing procedures and enhancements to his system’_. Though Hank does have a way of humanising otherwise cold, practical descriptions.

“I’ve been advised that if I’m to go undercover, I’ll need civilian clothing to help me blend in... According to your reaction, I’d say it’s working.”

“Your self-preservation skills are seriously lacking if you consider having a gun pointed at you as ‘working’.” Hank grouses, placing his revolver on the table, “Did the department issue you those?”

“No. It’s the only spare apparel I have. Why? Do you think it will be appropriate for the mission?”

Hank takes a seat at the dining table and drags a hand down his face, “The jacket might be a problem.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s a bullet hole in it.”

Connor looks down and inspects the offending material. True to Hank’s word, Connor can squeeze two fingers through an opening at his shoulder. He doesn’t remember getting shot at Jericho, but with all the chaos that ensued its altogether possible.

“You know what, I’m not even going to ask how that got there – it’s too early for this shit. I ‘spose it’s still a lot subtler than waltzing around in a suit with ‘ANDROID’ highlighted across your back in CyberLife blue.”

Hank sniffs the air, then catching sight of the food at the kitchen counter, gestures towards it, “What’s that?”

Connor picks up the plate and places it in front of Hank, “Bacon and scrambled eggs, served with wholemeal toast topped with avocado and tomato. The meal accounts for roughly one fourth of your daily recommended calorie intake, and-”

Hank raises a hand to stop him and interjects, “No, I don’t mean - Connor, we’ve talked about this. You’re not my maid. You don’t have to cook or clean up after me.”

Ever since Connor’s moved in, Hank’s alcoholism, as well as a great many of his other self-destructive tendencies have been significantly reduced. And though he’s not so arrogant as to credit all of Hank’s mental and physical health improvements to himself, Connor takes significant pride in any stability he’s able to contribute to Hank’s life. Hank has fought for Connor, defied his co-workers by asking him to remain on the force as his partner, given him a home and a purpose. It seems only right that Connor return that kindness somehow, even if it’s by doing something as small as household chores.

“Technically, I don’t _have to_ do anything, Hank.”

They have a short stand-off which is broken when Hank grumbles a curse before he begrudgingly picks up a fork and digs in.

Connor hides the pleased, upward turn of his lips by turning to finish cleaning the last of the dishes.

“You were gone a long time. What’d they do to you?” Hank asks.

“If you’re referring to the alterations they’ve made to my anatomical structure, they’ve transferred some features from the YK500 model-“

“YK500 - those are the creepy child bots, right?”

“They’re the only model with a specifically enhanced epidermal layer that is lined with photoelectric cells capable of thermoregulation and advanced sensation and propreception.”

“Uh-huh. So that, in English, means what exactly?”

Connor frowns. Putting it any other way would be a gross oversimplification of the years of work the technician had put in to develop an artificial nerve structure able to create a simulated synapse of a human nervous system made up of more than 100 trillion neural connections.

Nonetheless, Connor attempts to think less of how he would logically describe the mechanics and instead focuses on the foreign sensations granted by the modifications. Feels the heat of the soapy water at his hands and the freshness of the morning chill against his cheeks.

“I… can get cold now?”

“Great…” Hank drawls, “And how is that an upgrade?”

Connor can answer that easily enough, “My body can produce its own unique heat signature, meaning we shouldn’t have any trouble passing through the thermal imaging at the Canadian border.”

If Hank has any other questions, he doesn’t voice them. Connor rinses off a last dish and places it on the rack to dry, then seeing Sumo sitting obediently at Hank’s side, pleading eyes watching his every move, fills the dog’s bowl with kibble. The whole time, Connor is perturbed with an odd feeling of eyes on his back. Though when Connor attempts to catch Hanks’, his partner’s gaze has already fallen back to his plate.

“Is there something about my appearance that is unsettling to you, Lieutenant?” He asks.

He’s briefly hit with the thought that perhaps it’s bothering the Lieutenant that other than his LED, he’s now indistinguishable from a human. After all, it had been for the sake of other’s comfort that he’d initially refused to forego the clothing. He never wanted to somehow deceive people into believing he was something he isn’t. The irony of that notion in the face of a mission which is centred around deception and fraud is not lost on Connor.

“No.” Hank replies quickly, his tone defensive. “It’s just… different. I guess I’ve gotten used to seeing you in nothing other than that damn suit of yours.”

With that, Hank gets up to place his emptied plate in the sink, mumbling through the last of the food that he’d shovelled into his mouth, “Alright, I’m getting changed then we’re going out.”

“Going out? Where?” Connor asks, following Hank into the hallway, “We’re not scheduled to leave until tomorrow.”

“To get you some more clothes. It’s December; it’s going to be like zero degrees. You’re going to need a lot more to wear than a bullet-riddled jacket.”

Hank really needs to move past that. It’s only one bullet hole.

“We need to go over our cover story.” Connor reminds him.

Hank walks into his bedroom, calls, “We’ll do that on the way.” And shuts the door behind him.

 

 

\-----

 

 

Hank takes Connor to a thrift shop to buy him the basics; jeans, thermals, boots, and together they hash over the details of their cover.

Their overall backstory is no more complicated than a father hoping to escape the madness of Detroit after the Deviant event by buying a home in the middle of rural, android-free Canada. Connor is to act as a University student who has decided to utilize his Christmas break to assist Hank with the move. The idea being that as an inexperienced young adult trying to find his place in the world, he will be a prime target if their target is looking for new members to join whatever operation they have going on – young, vulnerable, and impressionable.

“What do you like?”

Connor, preoccupied with browsing the assortment of sweaters on sale, almost misses the question.

“What?”

“What are you interested in, Connor?”

Connor’s audio processor must be malfunctioning. There’s no way he heard that right.

“Are you… asking me a personal question?”

A red flush creeps up Hank’s neck, “You know what, forget I said anything, you can stay a robot.”

“Wait- sorry, I just… I don’t think I understand the question.” Connor stammers out in a bewildered attempt to salvage the conversation.

Hank wets his lips and pointedly avoids Connor’s curious gaze by fixing his attention to a nearby mannequin. The effects of Markus’ revolution can be seen even here; freed android models that used to confined in store windows now replaced by fiberglass and plastic.

“Look,” Hank eventually grinds out, “if you’re going to pretend to be human you’re going to need human interests.”

Connor’s brow furrows, “I thought we were going to develop a basis of values that are correspondent to our suspects’ attitudes in order to build their trust-“

“Yeah, obviously we’re going to have to lie about some of the stuff we believe, but I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the little things. The shit that doesn’t matter – like favourite movies or hobbies or music or food.”

Connor’s LED flashes yellow.

Preferences are the result of human criticization of their cultural context - an emotional reflection of an individual’s perceptions, personality, or past experiences. Naturally, androids were never intended to have them. Connor’s opinions and choices stem from the examination and interpretation of physical information which he can formulate hypotheses and probabilities to decide the best course of action. It goes beyond algorithmic thinking, but it doesn’t exactly break the mould of his original programming. What Hank is asking for is creativity; original thought. An expression of individuality.

Connor’s brow furrows, “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I can’t tell you what to like Connor. Hell, more than half of what makes you, you, is that you refuse to listen to anyone. It’d almost be endearing if it wasn’t so goddamn infuriating.”

Connor is hit with a foreign sensation of warmth rising to his cheeks.

“Hank… I can’t- my programming doesn’t-“

“Okay, I’m going to need you to try something for me.” Hank interjects, “Switch off your analysis brain for a second. I want you to pick something you like, simply because you’re drawn to it.”

Connor activates his peripheral sensors and takes in the vast expanse of the store.

“Anything?” He asks, feeling a little overwhelmed by the excess of information.

Hank takes a step back and opens out his arms, “Anything.”

Connor searches. Does a meticulous once-over of the store, examining every variety of fabric and design, from the very latest fashions, to vintage garments that when scanned, Connor can track back to the early 2000s.

He’s uncertain of what he’s looking for, but he’s damned determined to find it.

He’s viewed over eight-six percent of what the shop has to offer by the time he comes across it. Nestled deep within a clearance bin, is an old, turtleneck sweater. It’s garishly colourful – an abominable amalgamation of pinks, golds, reds and greens, with clashing combinations of asymmetrical vertical and horizonal stripes. Connor can spot a few flaws in the stitches and end points of the fabric, but that only adds to the charm of it being lovingly hand-knit by a human hand.

When he holds it up to show Hank, his partner physically recoils.

“That?” Hank asks, the colour draining from his face, “That’s the one you want?”

“Is there something wrong with it?”

Hank eyes the material with disdain, “Connor, I’ve been a cop for over thirty years now and that thing is the most hideous crime to humanity I’ve ever come across.”

Connor glances down at the sweater. The fabric is thick and soft to the touch. It’s bright and unique and radiates personality. It’s perfect.

He looks back up at Hank and offers a lopsided grin.

“I like it.”

_….. SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED_

 

 

\-----

 

 

The remainder of their day is spent making final-preparations and packing for the road trip.

Admittedly, the probability of successfully solving this investigation is currently not as optimal as they’d like. But Connor is dead-set on finding a way to raise that percentage. The fact that his system is insistent on rejecting the integration of an activatable LED is not helping his case.

Connor stands in front of the bathroom mirror and taps at his temple agitatedly. No matter what he tries, the light refuses to deactivate.

Searching for some form of solution, Connor scans the room.

Beside the sink, Hank’s straight shaving razor glints under the dim light.

He probably shouldn’t. He doesn’t want to resort to forcing the thing out, but one way or the other, he needs it gone. And he’d prefer that happen sooner rather than later.

Connor stills his breathing, halting the movement of his chest. He takes hold of the razor. Calibrates the weight. Steadily raises it to his head. Using his reflection for reference, Connor presses the blade against his skin. As he increases the pressure, Connor is partially conscious of a mild sting radiating from the point of contact.

Connor slices deeper into the synthetic flesh, and is immediately overcome with a sharp, white hot agony that consumes his thoughts and draws an involuntary cry from his voice synthesizer.

Shocked, the razor slips from Connor’s trembling grasp and clatters noisily to the tile floor.

“Connor?” Hank’s voice calls from down the hall.

Connor can’t hear anything over the erratic thumping of his thirium pump in his ears. Can barely process anything other the intense, burning sensation pulsating from his head - engrossed by the sight of blue blood flowing rapidly from the shallow cut at his temple, leaving a dull ache in its wake.

He should probably run a diagnostic scan, but he’s afraid of what it’ll tell him. He hasn’t been shot. Hasn’t fallen from a great height or been hit by a car. It’s a small incision at his temple. And it _hurts._

Connor’s vaguely aware that he’s panicking. His vision blurring to static.

Hank bursts though the bathroom door, only to be stopped short by the sight of Connor.

“Fuck.” Hank breathes.

His gaze moves from the frantic red blinking of the LED still lodged in his skull, to the thirium flowing down his face and dripping into the sink, to the stained razor abandoned on the ground.

Connor should probably explain himself.

He murmurs the first thing that comes to mind, his voice wooden and detached, “Androids don’t feel pain.”

They have receptors, sure. They have to register when their systems are damaged after all. But the information is just that; information. The deviants Connor hunted feared torture not because of the threat of suffering, but because it alluded to their inevitable destruction. They aren’t designed to respond to physical discomfort like this. Pain is an exclusively human experience.

“Connor.”

When Connor doesn’t respond, Hank closes the distance between them and gently holds Connor’s head between his hands.

“Connor, look at me.” He orders.

For once, Connor does as he’s told.

“You said earlier the techies fucked around with your sensors, right?” Hank prompts, “Something to do with your nervous system?”

At his continued silence, Hank guides Connor down until he’s sitting at the edge of the bathtub.

After a minute or two, Connor registers that he’s in shock. Sensing the disturbance, Sumo enters the bathroom and squeezes between Hank and Connor, then presses a cold, wet nose against his hand. Almost automatically, Connor responds by running his fingers through the dog’s fur. The action is oddly grounding - helps him calm the tremors shaking his frame and focus his thoughts.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually he manages to compose himself.

Hank is right. This discomfort ought to just be an unfortunate side effect of the neural network that the technicians implemented earlier. It’s fine. He’s fine.

He must appear more coherent than earlier, because Hank squeezes his shoulder and asks, “You with me?”

In the wake of his lucidity, comes the mortifying realisation that he’s made an altogether illogical and irrational overreaction to what is no worse than a superficial scratch. Connor is compelled by a sudden urge to hide his face is his hands.

“I’m okay,” Connor answers, voice soft.

Hank doesn’t look convinced. Connor can’t blame him. He feels heavy – fatigued, as if all his energy has been suddenly depleted.

He eyes the knife on the floor. The thought of bringing the blade to his temple again is an unpleasant one, but he can’t let his own issues get in the way of the mission. A muscle in Connor’s jaw twitches, and he moves to pick it up.

Hank shoves him back into place before he can even reach his feet, “What are you doing?”

“It won’t deactivate Hank, there’s no hiding it. We won’t make it past the border if I don’t take it out.”

Hank gapes at him, “Are you insane? You just had a fucking panic-attack.”

“I overreacted,” Connor responds mechanically, and shifts to stand again.

Brows snapping together, Hank curses and puts a hand to his chest, “I’ll do it, okay? We don’t need you carving out your fucking skull.”

He eyes Hank warily as his partner bends down to pick up the razor, then leans down to inspect the mess of blue and flickering yellow to red at his temple.

Hank combs back stray hairs that’ve managed to stick to the thirium running down Connor’s face. Then takes a delicate hold of his chin with one hand, and lines up the blade between Connor’s LED and his temple with the other.

“Close your eyes.”

For the second time that night - which must be a new record for him – Connor follows the instruction. For a brief moment, the pain returns. Fortunately, this time it’s short-lived.

Hank lodges the knife into the fissure separating the metal from his synthetic skin, does a quick jerk, and the light pops out from his head and falls into the bathtub with a faint _‘clink’_.

_ERROR….. BIOCOMPONENT #9301 CRITICALLY DAMAGED_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> David Cage I’m calling you out meet me in the fucking pit you incel. Do you understand how hard it is to plan out a story when none of the details from your source material have consistent rules? Why can Alice get cold? And why can Kara deactivate that feature – wouldn’t that be pretty important in knowing that your biocomponents aren’t freezing or shutting down? How can Markus overheat his systems to a point where he bursts into flame? Can androids generate their own heat or not? This is one plot hole of many. I’m tired y’all.
> 
> Anyway, the first part of this chapter kicked my ass, and oof the last part was rushed. Hopefully the next will go a little easier on me. For those that are interested, I’m planning on doing weekly updates if possible. I’ll do my best. Thanks for your support.


	3. Chapter 3

With Connor’s new advancements aptly functioning and his LED removed, Hank and Connor’s access through Canadian customs proves to be no issue. They flash their fake IDs, have their heat signatures scanned, and are let on through with a respective, ‘Welcome to Canada Mr. Dunnett’.

Aside from the soft jazz resounding from the car’s speakers, the ride over the Ambassador International Bridge is occupied by a pensive silence. Connor watches the city slowly falling away behind them. Idly, he rolls a coin between his fingers; spins it atop his nails and flicks it from hand to hand.

He’s never left Detroit before. Connor feels a strange sense of belonging to the place. Perhaps it’s because he’s an android. Maybe it’s because he’s managed to find some semblance of a family; a purpose. Somewhere along the way it’s become something akin to a home.

 “Connor,” Hank growls, his hands tightening around the steering wheel, “I’m about three seconds away from turning this car around.”

Ceasing his movement, Connor catches the coin and slides it back into his pocket.

“I’m sorry, Hank. I’m calibrating my fine-motor control.”

“You’re _fidgeting_.”

Connor pauses; his hands restless without the distraction, “That is a… crass but not entirely inaccurate way to describe it.”

Feeling the need to clarify, Connor adds, “It helps me think.”

Hank takes one glimpse at his brooding expression and asks, “Anything in particular on your mind?”

Connor looks away and shrugs.

“No.”

“Shit, we’re really going to have to work on your lying skills.” Hank mutters under his breath.

“Connor, I’m a detective. I don’t need a bright red light flashing at your head to see that something’s bothering you… You’ve barely said a word since last night.”

Connor tenses. His eyes instinctually flicking to the mirror to check the smooth, artificial skin at his temple.

“You’ve never experienced pain before… You shouldn’t be ashamed for feeling a little shaken up.”

_Shouldn’t he?_ Honestly, Connor has had to revaluate his overall usefulness to the mission. His emotions alone can be overwhelming at times. He has no idea how to process them. If that wasn’t already bad enough, Connor now also has the added pressure of dealing with an instruction-less, foreign artificial nervous system. Connor doesn’t think he’s equipped to describe the hybrid android-human sensation hell that’s raging inside him.

“Before… The deviancy… Before this. Injuries were simply information.” Connor explains, “System malfunctions that needed fixing. Human pain though… Its a different story. It can be incredibly disruptive and is usually not at all indicative of the threat.”

He lowers his head and admits, “It makes me vulnerable – more of a liability.”

“Yeah, it does.” Hank replies bluntly, “Welcome to the club.”

Hank manages to refrain from laughing when he catches view of the pointed glare Connor shoots at him.

“Sorry to burst your bubble kid but weakness and suffering is kind of exactly what being human is all about.”

Connor scowls. He isn’t human. In fact, he’s at a distinct disadvantage compared to most humans. Connor’s been active for less than a year. He didn’t get a chance to ‘grow up’ being told what to feel or what not to feel in appropriate or inappropriate situations. Didn’t get to learn the ins and outs of certain human characteristics.

“You seem largely unfazed by this development, Lieutenant.” He voices dryly.

Hank snorts, “Oh, I’m well-fucking fazed, trust me. Just not about the shit you’re concerned about…”

When Hank doesn’t elaborate, Connor slumps back into his seat, a worried frown adorning his face.

“Pain’s a good teacher Connor. Maybe you’ll remember that the next time a fork’s sticking out of your thigh because you thought pouring all my whiskey down the toilet again was a good idea.”

_POSSIBILITY OF LIEUTENANT FOLLOWING THROUGH WITH THREAT….. 83%_

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Connor replies immediately.

“Course not.” Hank drawls.

The further north they travel, the heavier the snow falls. The landscape around them gradually becoming a canvas of pure white. Connor is immensely grateful for the solar cells implemented on the highway, keeping the road free of ice.

“You are aware you’re exceeding the current speed limit?”

“Yeah.” Hank replies, his expression deadpan.

“Right… I suppose that’s why you’re so adamant about refusing to own a self-driving car.” He comments wryly.

Hank takes a little too long to reply, and belatedly, Connor realises he may have just crossed an invisible line into a topic altogether too related to Cole’s death.

“No, I don’t have a self-driving car because if I’m going to have an accident I’d rather any element of choice be in my hands, not in some fucking predetermined algorithm’s.” Hank spits bitterly.

Connor opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a soft, “Oh.”

An awkward silence fills the car, creating an uneasy tension between them. Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Connor scrambles to backtrack to a lighter conversation.

“Anyway,” Connor says, forcing a light and casual tone, “I was thinking about what you were saying yesterday at the store. About having human interests?”

Hank’s expression softens, “Yeah? You figured anything out?”

“Well, the human development of preferences is dependent on what you perceive as a positive physiological or emotional reaction. Obviously, my experience with these types of responses is extremely limited. But I don’t think I was lying when I told you I liked Knights of the Black Death.”

“You like heavy metal.” Hank states wearily, “There’s got to be a terrible android joke in that somewhere.”

“Not heavy metal, exactly. My auditory cortex processes music by picking up the wavelengths and frequencies of sound. Very loud and bass-heavy music produces intense vibrations that can resonate strongly with my audio processor. It is a visceral sensation that I find… quite enjoyable.”

Hank looks thrown by the information, “Okay. That’s nice. It sure as hell isn’t going to convince anyone you’re human, but it’s nice.”

 “I also still like dogs.” 

Sumo huffs a sigh from where he’s resting in the back seat.

Hank nods, “You should stick with that.”

Hank scratches his beard, a contemplative frown adorning his features, “You know what, let’s try something easier. Give me your best, most natural smile.”

Taking a moment to search his records for the best way to emulate the appearance, Connor widens his eyes. He tenses his cheek muscles, stretching out his mouth as wide and as high as physically possible, then as a final touch, curls his lip back slightly to display some teeth.

Hank stares at Connor blankly, the colour gradually draining from his face. Eventually, his pained expression slowly turns back to focus on the road ahead of them.

“Jesus Christ. We’re fucked.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

It takes six hours and forty-eight minutes to reach their destination. Snowflakes drift down from the dark, grey clouds overhead. The town itself is hidden within a small valley surrounded by frost-capped mountains. The centre of the village is decked out with Christmas decorations; glistening ornaments and glowing fairy lights illuminating the atmosphere. Hank wrinkles his nose in disgust.

At one point they turn off onto a smaller road which leads to a twisty, winding route through pine trees and winter cabins positively coated in snow. Finally, they reach the end of a street and Hank pulls up into an icy driveway.

Connor is aware that the temperature outside is currently -17 degrees Fahrenheit. He recognises that any exposure to cold will stimulate the receptors at his skin and cause thermal sensation through the stimulation of his artificial nervous system. He’s even come across the feeling briefly before in Detroit, though the temperature in the city is substantially warmer than here.

No amount of collected data, knowledge or prior experience can prepare Connor for the shock of cold that slaps him across the face when he steps out of the car. The biting chill seeps through the fabric of his clothes, numbing his fingers until they feel thick and stiff.

_WARNING….. SYSTEM ANOMALY DETECTED_  
INTERNAL TEMPERATURE DECREASED  
THIRIUM VESSEL FLOW REDUCED

“Yeah, I detected that too.” Connor shoots back at the alerts blaring at the side of his vision.

Sumo is a lot more appreciative of the snow. He bounds out of the car and rolls around the white powder; ecstatic at the chance to expend some energy after having to sit in the car for so long.

“Sumo, hey!” Hank yells as he climbs out of the vehicle with their bags. He halts at the sight of Connor; teeth chattering, synthetic muscles shivering, and arms wrapped around himself in an attempt to sustain any remnant of warmth.

“Connor? You alright?”

“I’m… It’s-“

The mix of human physiological reactions and robotic warnings blaring at his consciousness prove to be difficult interference factors when trying to process a comprehensible answer.

“It’s fucking cold.” Connor states, finding that the words unexpectedly and quite eloquently sum up his discomfort.

Hank raises his eyebrows, the curse drawing an amused snort from his partner, “Yeah, I’m freezing my balls off here.”

He passes a bag to Connor, “The sooner we get this shit inside, the sooner we can get warm.”

After a brief struggle through the knee-deep snow to the cabin, Connor and Hank dump their belongings in front of the door then use already frozen hands to scoop snow drift away from the front door and wedge it open. The furnishing and decor inside is stripped back to the bare-minimum, and so they spend the next hour or so setting up a liveable space.

“We have a problem.”

Connor lifts his head, “What?”

“There’s only one bedroom.”

Connor frowns, confused.

“Hank, I don’t sleep.”

It feels like an oddly obvious thing to point out. Something flashes beneath the surface of Hank’s hardened expression, though the emotion disappears before Connor can investigate the sudden shift.

“Right.” He says after a moment, then goes back to whatever it was he was doing.

Perplexed, Connor turns back to the fireplace. He holds a match to newspaper beneath dry timber, and it’s not long before a fire flashes into existence in a wash of red and yellow sparks. The flames curl and sway, warming Connor’s face and thawing his frozen fingers. The feeling is unexpectedly pleasant. So pleasant, in fact, that he refuses to move for the remainder of the afternoon.

It’s not until Hank insists on discussing the mission at the kitchen table does he pull away from his spot.

Hank gestures towards their location on a digital map, “We’re within the range of where we last lost track of the suspects. Now all we have to do is suck up to the locals. If we’re lucky, and if we somehow manage to not get ourselves captured or killed, we might be invited to a meeting.”

Connor’s mouth sets in a hard line, “This doesn’t exactly fit under the constraints of a solid plan.”

“That’s probably because it’s not a solid plan. If this is a cult or a terrorist group they’re not going to give us the hard sell right off the bat, Connor. If the pitch were, ‘Come be a part of our group, have it control most to all aspects of your life, possibly cut off all ties with those you love, and make us the focal point of your life until you die,’ then most people would run the other way screaming. If they’re going to try and recruit anyone, they’ll do it in a way that’s subtle and unassuming. Like a barbeque, or a workshop, or a fucking poetry reading, or some other seemingly innocuous event. Either way, any progress we make on this case is going to be slow. We’re outsiders in a small country town. They’re not just going to accept us with open-“

Hank is interrupted by a loud, tinny buzzing noise that sets Sumo into a frenzy. They both freeze, eyes flicking to the plans on display for all to see in the middle of the kitchen table.

_Shit._

Hank springs into action, gathering the display tablets and maps into his arms. Connor turns towards the door.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Hank hisses.

Connor pauses, “What?”

“I’m begging you, whatever you do-” Hank says, his expression deadly serious, “-don’t smile.”

Sumo’s barking intensifies as the doorbell shrills again.

Connor rolls his eyes and calls, “Coming!”

Once Hank disappears into his bedroom with all evidence of their operation, Connor steels himself and proceeds to gently pull Sumo away from the door before opening it.

“Hello?”

At their entrance, stands a middle-aged, blonde white woman holding a steaming dish between her hands.

_PROCESSING….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
CHICKEN CASSEROLE…..  
CALORIES: 3,440, TOTAL FAT: 150G, SODIUM: 1,192MG, POTASSIUM: 2,530  
NO ILLICIT SUBSTANCES DETECTED

She beams up at Connor, making him feel a little awkward about not being able to return the gesture.

“Hi, I’m Janet! I live down the road.”

“I’m Connor… Dunnett. Connor Dunnett.” Connor stammers, keeping his face impassive.

“Sorry to barge in on you like this Connor. It’s a small town and we heard we were getting some new neighbours, so I thought I’d offer a little housewarming gift.”

It takes a moment for Connor to realise that the woman is waiting for him to accept the casserole. He releases a short ‘oh’, then, letting go of Sumo’s collar, jolts forwards to take the dish from her hands, “Thank you.”

“I hope this isn’t too forward of me, but my husband and I host a Christmas party every year for the whole neighbourhood – it’s kind of a town tradition at this point. It’s a great way to bring everyone together and we’d love to see some new faces there.”

“Uh, that sounds great. My uh… My father and I will be there.”

Janet clasps her hands together excitedly, “Fantastic. I’ll send you our details. I look forward to seeing you there.”

With that, she takes her leave - trots down the icy driveway, hops into a waiting car and drives off.

Hank appears from wherever he’d been hiding and closes the door for him. Speechless, Connor and Hank move to the couch and slowly take a seat.

After a minute or so, Connor speaks up, “So Hank. What were you saying?”

Hank raises a finger, ”Shut up. That doesn’t count. She’s not a suspect.”

Connor has to disagree with Hank on that front. Due to their sheer lack of evidence, everyone in this town is a potential suspect.

“I believe it was something on the lines of, ‘they’re not going to accept us with open-”

“ _Connor._ ” Hank stresses, ripping the casserole from Conner’s grasp, “Not a word.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I kind of hate this chapter – it was a pain to write. It’s a just a little bit of relatively lazy exposition and no action. However, I am very excited for the next one, so I’ll see if I can get it out a little earlier than usual. Especially since this chapter was so small.
> 
> Also, I don’t care if it makes no sense to take your dog with you on an undercover mission, Sumo is coming along for this ride and nothing you say will stop me.


	4. Chapter 4

“I can’t believe I’m the one asking this, but do you not have a single self-conscious bone in your body?”

Connor blinks slowly, “No… Should I?”

Hank’s gestures to the oversized hoodie beneath Connor’s denim jacket, “Where the hell did you even manage to get that?”

Following Hank’s pointed glare, Connor’s eyes are drawn to the word _‘T I T T I E S’_ emblazoned across his chest in large, rainbow print. Connor isn’t sure what Hank’s issue is. In his informed opinion, the outfit – paired with a bright earflap beanie, fingerless gloves, and dark jeans – successfully captures the air of a human who is young and influenceable.

Hank raises a hand when Connor opens his mouth to respond; silencing him before he can make a sound, “No, you know what – never mind.”

Taking a deep, drawn-out sigh, Hank reaches forward and turns on the car’s ignition, “Just… Zip up the jacket and get in. We’re going to be late.”

 

\-----

 

 

“This is not how I would define _‘down the road’_ , Connor. _”_ Hank comments as he comes to a halt in front of the address.

Hank’s doubts are understandable considering he had no knowledge that their street ended 3.6 miles deep into the forest.

“I assure you, this is the correct location.”

Hank eyes him warily, “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

The second Connor steps out of the car, he has to suppress a violent shiver. The temperature had dropped significantly since sundown - his breath visible as he tries to blow warmth into his cold hands.

_WARNING….. SYSTEM ANOMOLY DETECTED  
DECREASE IN INTERNA-_

“Acknowledged, shut up.” Connor mutters beneath his breath.

Hank perks up beside him, “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

They pass a long row of cars parked alongside the road before encountering an open front yard that matches the details Janet had given Connor.

A lone pathway cuts through the thick layers of snow and leads up to a massive, two-storied winter lodge. Connor watches as a snowflake drifts languidly down and, hitting the path, gradually melts away into the stone. After a quick scan, he finds a system of piping filled with heated water and antifreeze beneath the ground.

They follow the pathway through a yard illuminated with blinking Christmas lights and vibrant ornaments that are strung from nearly every available surface in a very picturesque manner. Hank eyes the decorations with obvious distaste.

Snow blankets the roof and piles all around the house. When they climb up the porch and approach the entrance, they find the front door adorned by a large, lush wreath of bright green holly and red berries.

Before they go any further, Hank pulls him aside and puts a hand on each of his shoulders.

“Connor, you’re just an everyday college-student,” He says, face stern, “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“No going balls-to-the-wall with technical specs or statistics, no smiling, no prolonged, uninterrupted staring, no pointing out the exact metallic alloy in someone’s jewellery or the percentage of polyester in someone’s shirts or the ratio of alcohol in their drink.”

Connor doesn’t understand why he would ever place his extremities on a wall. He chalks it up to another one of Hank’s crude colloquialisms. He also debates whether it’s worth commenting that he has only done four out of five of those things in public, but ultimately decides that now’s not the time nor the place.

At Connor’s nod, Hank takes a deep breath, says, “Here we go.” Then moves away to ring the bell.

Hearing footsteps approach the door, Hank seems to remember something, and he hastily swings around and hisses over his shoulder, “And for the love of god, no licking anything that isn’t edible.”

“That’s subjective.” Connor replies.

Hank glares daggers at him, though the door opens before he can berate him.

In the doorway stands a short man with sharp features; his dark hair slicked back with a thick coat of gel.

“Oh, hello.” He smiles, adjusting the round glasses at his nose, “I haven’t seen you two before – you must be our new neighbours,” He holds out an open hand to Hank, “I’m Clyde. Clyde Layton.”

Hank shakes it, “Hank Dunnett. This is my son, Connor.”

Connor’s thirium pump pauses a beat at the words. He’s not used to having a designation that’s anything beyond a few lines of code. Nor has he ever been recognised as belonging to Hank in any other way than an android partner.

_….. SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED_

_Not helpful._

There’s a long moment of Connor staring dumbly at Clyde’s open palm before he realises he too is supposed to respond to the gesture. He slides his fingers through Clyde’s and flops his arm up and down in an awkward rendition of a handshake. Hank hides his face in his hands. Connor is fairly new to these everyday, cordial greetings. He summarises that there’s room for improvement.

 “Uh… Right, well.” Clyde extracts himself from Connor’s grip and takes a step back to allow them in, “Come on in.”

The doorway swings closed behind them and they are confronted with an entryway that is as large as Hank’s home and ten times more sophisticatedly decorated. They add their coats to the long row of golden pegs holding various scarves, hats, and jackets beside the door.

“So, Mr. Layton. What is it that you do?” Hank asks, delicately easing his way into the questioning process.

“Oh, please – Clyde is perfectly fine.” He says with a wave of his hand, “I’m a chemist.”

Observing the grandiose foyer, Hank fails to conceal an incredulous look.

Catching sight of the expression, Clyde snorts, “Hard to believe, I know.”

 _FACIAL RECOGNITION SYNC IN PROGRESS….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
LAYTON, CLYDE  
BORN: 02/07/1998 / / CHEMICAL ENGINEER  
CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE

Connor’s brisk background check confirms the Mr. Layton’s claims. When Connor looks up the man’s annual salary, his database spits out a ridiculously high sum. His wealth largely attributed to the fact he’s accomplished research that has greatly assisted in bringing back an endangered animal from the brink of extinction after developing a cure to a rare form of facial cancer that had been plaguing the species for the last century.

In person, Clyde Layton gives off an impression of poised self-conviction. He holds himself with pride – chin high, chest out and shoulders relaxed. Clyde easily stands a head shorter than Hank, but Connor finds that his posture succeeds in providing an illusion of height.

They’re led down a hallway of polished hardwood flooring and pure white walls lined with swags of fresh balsam perfuming the air. They pass through an archway with mistletoe hanging from the ceiling - Hank making great strides to avoid the herb - and are taken into the main living area.

“Holy shit.” Hank whispers.

Connor and Hank slowly walk around the room, taking in every detail. The space opens to a massive, lavishly decorated Christmas tree that reaches up towards a fifteen-metre high ceiling. Built into the back wall is a heated, crystalline aquarium full of various species of tropical fish. Golden tinsel and fairy lights hang from exposed oak beams, and the room’s atmosphere is charged with a cacophony of music and conversation.

The grand, open design of the architecture seems counter-intuitive to the frigid weather outside. Though, when Connor peers out of the bank of floor-to-ceiling triple-glazed windows to find a back porch filled with steam rising from spacious hot pools, he begins to think perhaps sensibility and practicality weren’t the first things in mind when building the lodge.

Hank’s eyes immediately lock onto a dark pine dining table practically overflowing with a selection of seasonal buffet foods, and he excuses himself before heading towards it.

Connor follows Clyde to the room’s centre-piece; an enormous river-stone fireplace, accentuated by a mantlepiece topped with holiday-themed knickknacks and surrounded by people sitting on sofas and chairs draped with comfortable looking throw blankets.

Clyde announces their presence to the group, “Everyone, this is Connor. He and his father are new to town.” Before falling into a seat beside his wife and throwing an arm around her.

Janet greets him with a wave and snuggles against Clyde, “Connor! Welcome – we didn’t really get to meet each other earlier. Please, sit. Tell us about yourself.”

Connor is suddenly stricken with an odd burst of nerves under the scrutiny of so many unfamiliar faces. He cautiously takes a seat at one of the empty lounges and forces his hands into his lap. Any one of these people could be suspects.

“There’s not much to tell.” Connor says slowly, determining that it would be best to recite the backstory he is already familiar with, “I’m studying Computer Technology at NYU, but Ha- my _dad_ is from Detroit. I’m currently on Christmas break so I decided to help him with the move.”

“Detroit, huh. America’s own ‘ _android haven’_.” An older man snorts derisively, shaking his head.

 _FACIAL RECOGNITION SYNC IN PROGRESS….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
PENTANCE, DONAVON  
BORN: 05/23/1976 / / PARK RANGER  
CRIMINAL RECORD: IMPAIRED DRIVING

Donavon has the look of someone who once had muscles, broad over the back and thick in the neck. His skin is dashed in dirty grey hairs that aren’t either long enough or shaped enough to be an intentional beard.

“No wonder your old man wanted to escape that shit-hole.”

“Yeah… I uh, really needed to help him get away from everything that was happening.” Connor replies.

“Well, you two should find yourselves right at home here,” A middle aged woman with bleached-blonde hair smiles friendly, “There’s not a single android within a thousand miles of here.”

The irony of that statement doesn’t escape Connor.

 _FACIAL RECOGNITION SYNC IN PROGRESS….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
CHABALIN, LUCY  
BORN: 01/10/1989 / / PSYCHOLOGIST  
CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE

“Not much of anything within a thousand miles of here.” A girl mutters beneath her breath. Lucy lightly smacks her, and a quick scan reveals that she’s her daughter.

“Treating machines as if they’re alive. It’s fucking insane.” Donavon claims, still stuck on their initial line of conversation,  
“You can’t enslave a robot any more than you enslave a toaster. Where are they gonna draw the line, huh? Before we know it, they’ll start demanding people free their vacuum cleaners.”

Anger is an emotion that Connor’s a little more familiar with; boiling away at the pit of his diaphragm and overriding his other senses. Schooling his expression to one of careful neutrality, Connor calms himself by smoothing his fingers over the cool surface of his quarter.

Readjusting his spectacles, Clyde laughs, “I don’t know Don. They’re a little more advanced that that from what I’ve heard; who’s to dictate whether these machines are alive or not?”

That piques Connor’s interest. Looking around the room, he finds that he’s not the only one.

“Oh no, Don. You’ve released the beast.” Janet smirks, running a hand across Clyde’s chest, “I hope everyone’s ready for some heavy existential philosophy.”

Clyde rolls his eyes good-naturedly, “Hear me out; life itself is just a bunch of chemistry reacting with the outer world and getting more complicated over time, right? I mean, human beings themselves would have began from two molecules exchanging particles billions upon billions of years ago. I’d argue that the only difference between what’s alive and what’s not is within our perception of what we consider living. If we’re being real here, technically, our brains are just big, complex biological computers.”

Connor furrows his brow. It’s odd to view human biology so mechanically when his entire being seems to be a philosophical trampoline; bouncing between definitions of genuine emotion and designated imitations of humanity. Overall though, he finds himself being unable to fault Clyde’s reasoning.

Lucy hums her disagreement, “You seem to be forgetting that bio-chemicals and brain synapses aren’t exactly the same as pre-programmed algorithms and simulated emotions.”

“Yes, they can generate reactions based on their programming,” Clyde concedes with a half shrug, “But how’s that any different from a person producing emotions through brain chemicals like dopamine, oxytocin, serotonin. The chemicals that trigger responses in our brains has many similarities with those compounds found within blue blood.”

“Clyde, the idea that a program could be sentient is preposterous,” Lucy responds, swirling wine around her glass, “I’m no tech expert, but I do know the brain. And I know enough to understand a computer wouldn’t be able to handle the complex processes needed to completely integrate emotional information. They can’t seamlessly mesh together the pieces of data we use to be conscious and capable of feeling.”

Donovan nods, “They’re just machines with some special lights and clockwork and no soul.”

_Yikes._

“Hey, I’m not discrediting your points,” Clyde raises his hands in a placating gesture, “To my mind, the fact they can’t feel emotion or pain is what makes them altogether more fascinating… And unequivocally dangerous.”

Connor fights an urge to fidget.

“Imagine it,” Clyde prompts, his tone filled with awe, “Perfect beings with infinite intelligence, and now they’re free to do as they please.”

“And what if they aren’t?’ Connor asks, the words slipping from his lips before he can stop them.

Curious, Clyde’s attention latches onto him, “Aren’t what?”

Connor works his jaw, his hands uncharacteristically clammy. It’s quite the predicament. Everyone around the couch is waiting for him to continue; waiting for him to divulge his deepest, darkest insecurities when he should be spurting nothing but lies.

“Free to do as they please…” Connor stammers, “What if CyberLife consciously programmed them to deviate from the start. What if this is what they wanted all along, and they have some manner of forcing control back upon them.”

_What if I’m not actually in control. What if somehow, none of this is real?_

“They would have an army at their hands at the flick of a switch. How are we supposed to live with something like that?”

_How can he expect Hank supposed to trust something like that?_

No one replies. They stare at Connor as if he’s just spewed some nonsensical conspiracy theory. Except Clyde, who seems to be seeing him in an entirely new light, his eyes bright with intrigue.

In the ensuing silence, an undertone of uneasiness permeates the air around them.

“I’m sorry Connor, we’re being incredibly insensitive,” Janet apologises, her expression moulding into one of concern, “It must’ve been hard being so far away from your dad during the Detroit riots.”

There’s a second of confusion before Connor realises she’s referring to Markus’ revolution.

Donavon has the decency to look sheepish, “This is what happens when the chemical engineer hosts a Christmas party.” He jokes.

“Yes well, enough of that,” Lucy says, setting down her glass of wine on the coffee table, “You and your dad have nothing like that to fear here. You’ll be very comfortable. Now, let’s move onto something lighter.”

The conversation progresses to further introductions and discussions about topics such as their respective careers and plans for Christmas.

Socialising has changed significantly since his deviancy. Before, he learned how to negotiate by observing the information available to him and attempting to mimic the emotion and colloquialisms of human language. Now, he finds that conversation is more intuitive, with Connor often having to navigate his own habits and speech idiosyncrasies.

It's an extra challenge to act as if he’s emotionally upset about the Detroit event, and to take every opportunity that’s presented to him to disagree with his own government’s policy on androids – laws which he has sworn to uphold; denouncing every stride Marcus has made to achieve. The latter of which, hurts more than he’d thought it would.

In turn, he’s showered in praise and warm words.

Objectively, these reactions support the theory of an anti-android group or cult. If they are extremists, they will want to establish a rapport of trust and dependency with him. All he needs to do is pretend he has an intense desire to belong, and they will fawn over him as if he were a newborn kitten.

He believes it’s running relatively smoothly. Right up until the point Clyde gets up and moves over to where Connor is seated before placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I haven’t seen you eat anything yet, Connor. Did you want something?”

Connor goes rigid, blinking as possible responses bounce around the trepidation at his mind.  He settles on, “You know, I’ve actually been feeling ill.”

“Really?” Clyde asks, his expression deepening in worry, “Is it a flu thing or do you feel like you need to throw up?”

Connor is unfamiliar with both of those options. Nervously wringing his hands together, he resolves to do a quick search for _‘sick symptoms’_ within his database.

“Just the regular. Fever, abdominal pain, tingling in hands, muscle aches, difficulty swallowing, dizziness, constipation, fatigue.” He lists off, his face carefully guarded.

“Damn! Seriously? That sounds terrible… If you’re feeling too unwell, don’t be afraid to ask for help or leave early. This is a judgement free zone.”

Connor nods, then ducks his head and hastily escapes into the kitchen.

He finds Hank beneath an eye-catching glass chandelier making conversation with a man over the table. His expression is outwardly impassive and bored, but Connor is familiar enough with Hank to recognise that from the tenseness of his jaw and the slight twitch of his fingers, he’s studiously trying to mask his irritation.

 _FACIAL RECOGNITION SYNC IN PROGRESS….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
KRAMMIN, PETER  
BORN: 11/16/1992 / / PASTORAL FARMER  
CRIMINAL RECORD: DISORDLY CONDUCT

“Hey, I’m going to grab another bottle.” Peter says, gesturing to his beer, “You want a refill?”

“Ah, no. Don’t want my son on my ass about it,” Hank deflects. Connor’s unsure of whether the declination is more due to Hank wanting to stay sober for the mission, or if he’s actually made some progress in discouraging Hank’s destructive drinking habits.

 “Sounds like a good kid,” Peter laughs, “How old is he?”

Hank blanches.

They haven’t hashed over that detail. In truth, though he was designed to appear within a human age range between twenty and thirty, Connor was activated less than a year ago. Unfortunately, Hank can’t exactly say he’s little more than six months old.

Pausing for time, Hank takes a long sip of his beer. It’s probably a good time for Connor to cut in.

“Hey dad-“

Hank chokes, his eyes bulging as he spits out his drink.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” He asks, eyeing Peter as he wipes the alcohol from his clothes with clear disgust.

Still coughing, Hank nods, tears springing at his eyes. Connor pulls him aside, offering Peter a smile - aiming for apologetic amicability, though probably completely missing the mark as the man visibly flinches backwards.

 

“God, this place is a fucking nightmare.” Hank groans, wiping the spit from his mouth.

Observing their luxurious surroundings, Connor raises an eyebrow, “It’s definitely different to Detroit. These people are incredibly friendly and eager to welcome us.”

“Yeah,” Hank says, scratching at his beard in thought, “They are unusually welcoming. Which means this is either a cult… or they’re just Canadian.”

“They didn’t display many characteristics that are typical to cults – no evidence of forced cohabitation, coercion, seclusion, isolation-“

“That last one’s debatable.” Hank interjects.

“There’s a higher probability of this being run by a small group of extremists or a suspect working individually.”

Connor sweeps his eyes across the room. True to Janet’s word, it seems the whole town has been invited, everyone drinking and conversing casually. _Distracted._ Connor thinks. Lost in their own little worlds.

“We should investigate the house.”

Hank lights up at the suggestion, “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

 

They sneak away from the main party into an expansive hallway and ascend a wide staircase swinging in a graceful curve; fairy lights curling up the banister. The upstairs foyer is a little more toned down on the Christmas decorations, with tasteful art hung in place of tinsel or holly and a plush rug running the length of the hall.

“I don’t think I can endure another minute of this bullshit Connor,” Hank mutters, “I just had an hour-long conversation about how android sex-clubs are going to destroy the world. Do you understand how fucking dumb that is? Why are there real-life people still whining about low birth rates? There’s already six billion humans running around-”

“8.6.” Connor corrects, checking behind the door of the first room.

Inside is a home gym. The back wall is entirely composed of glass – revealing the vast white landscape outside. Connor activates his peripheral sensors and scans the area. Treadmills, weight racks, wall-mounted big screen TV, high-end audio-visual electronics, yoga balls, mats. Nothing of interest.

“-Why would people want more people around anyway? Have you ever met another human being?”

Connor understands why this mission is proving… troubling for Hank. His problem never truly had been with androids, but with apathy and emotionless beings. It just so happened that androids had perfectly fit into those categories at the time. Any complaints Hank had ever made toward his kind were spurred by his general lack of faith towards humankind, and life in general. The ignorance and hatred within these people must be digging into that sore point of Hank, and Connor isn’t certain there is any way he can relieve it other than allowing him to verbally vent his frustrations. It’s preferable to him drinking them away.

“Every problem on the planet’s caused by humans. Global-warming is fucked, animals are going extinct, we’re on the verge of a world war. As far as humanity is concerned, they should be grateful for android existence.”

Connor forgoes pointing out that not too long ago Hank exhibited very similar sentiments to the man he’s criticizing; the phrase _‘Next thing you know, we’re gonna be extinct, because everybody would rather buy a piece of plastic than love another human being’_ ringing like a bell at his memory bank.

Analysis of the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh rooms show no more evidence of possible kidnappings or criminal activity than the first. Though each is as extravagant and luxurious as the last.

The final room is an expansive library, filled with shelves of books with aged, antique spines and old-fashioned sofas.

Hank pulls out a novel from the closest bookcase and beings flipping through it, “What kind of pretentious asshole keeps books in hard-copy form anymore? I don’t think they even sell paper anymore – everything is on a fucking screen.”

Connor meticulously explores the area, searching for anything that could be perceived as suspicious. He’s drawn towards the back corner of the room, where he identifies a bright red switch between two worn bookcases.

“Hank?” He calls.

“Yeah?” Hank puts away the book and heads over to where he’s standing, “You find something?”

“Maybe. Question; are you for or against pushing possibly dangerous, unspecified, mysterious switches?”

Hank answers immediately, “For.”

“Thought so.” Connor replies, mashing a hand against the button.

They hear a shudder and a pop from behind the wall, as if there’s something clicking into place, then the worn bookcases beside the switch begin to shake and groan as they slowly lower into the ground. Once they are fully concealed beneath the ground, a small, dim chamber is revealed. Inside, a glowing, white sphere sits upon a pedestal; illuminating the centre of the room.

“What the hell is that?”

When Connor removes one of his gloves and hovers a hand over it, his artificial skin peels back as the orb lights up beneath his fingers.

Hank takes a step forward, “Connor, wait. Maybe we shouldn’t be fucking around with-“

Connor places an open palm over the sphere, and with a jolt of energy is hit with unfamiliar lines of code and system diagnostics that are not his own. It’s a mainframe. An incredibly advanced one, at that. The machine feels… Cold. Not like the chill of the air outside, but motorized and lifeless. Lacking any personality or emotion.

Connor could work with this. If there is any information to be gained from the Layton, then this is his best chance to find it. Taking a deep (albeit physiologically redundant) breath, Connor mentally separates himself from the sheer power of the computing capacity at his hands.

He attacks the central processing unit’s first line of defence by simply running a list of plaintext passwords through a hashing algorithm and comparing the results against his enciphered password file. Surpassing the code, Connor is rewarded with the lodge’s home control options and a wealth of information involving the computer’s bulk data processing. There’s nothing that explicitly indicates any criminal activity though. Not beneath the system’s first layer of defence. The barrier to the remainder of the mainframe’s data is immensely more complex. The moment he so much as pokes at the Firewall, a shock of electricity is sent up through his arm, and Connor jerks back from the sphere with a yelp.

“Connor!”

“I’m fine…” He says, feeling a strong compulsion to visibly compose himself in some way – straighten a tie that he no longer wears. He compromises by pulling his glove back on, “Their home control system is relatively to hack into, but there’s very little being able to switch on certain lights or heating a hot tub will achieve-“

Hank throws his hand up, a confused knot between his brows, “Hold up. You’re telling me the magic glow-y orb thing is a computer?”

“Yes.”

“You know what, fine. Whatever,” Hank sighs, defeated, “Proceed.”

“I could dig deeper, but the probability of me leaving behind a digital footprint if I do so is too high to risk it. Anything of importance – search history, bank account details, recently deleted data is all heavily encrypted. I’ve run some calculations and it seems that the Layton family has either paid for the most expensive malware protection software just for the sake of it-“

“They’ve already spent more than a fortune on goddamn Christmas decorations, I wouldn’t put that past them.” Hank interjects.

“-Or they want to hide something.”

“Connor, this… _thing_ is hidden behind three-hundred-year-old paperbacks in a room that no guest should be snooping around in. I think we’re a little more than past that conclusion.”

Connor frowns, rubbing away the uncomfortable tingling feeling at his arm.

Their search of the upstairs rooms finished, Connor closes the hidden chamber and they head back downstairs. They’re walking towards the party when Connor spots the anomaly.

“Hank,” he whispers, reaching for his sleeve and tugging him back.

“What?”

Towards the end of the hallway is a small hardwood door; it’s silver handle tinged in blue. Connor pulls Hank over to the point of interest.

“Do you see that?” He asks, pointing at the doorknob.

“See what?”

Connor scans the blue substance. It’s too old for him to analyse orally; invisible to the naked eye, but it’s not old enough for Connor to be unable to track.

“Looks like thirium...”

Hank raises his eyebrows, “Now what would some rich assholes living in the middle of android-free Canada be doing with blue-blood?”

Opening the door, Connor follows the trail of thirium down a staircase’s barrister, and into what must be the Layton’s family garage. The area, like everything else in the building, is immaculate.

Within the centre of the space, is an open lift consisting of three separate platforms, each holding a luxury car model that would easily be valued at over ten million dollars.

“So, this is what it looks like when one percent of the country holds ninety-nine percent of the wealth.” Hank grumbles, “You find where the blood leads to?”

Connor shakes his head; his brows knitting together, “The trail ends here.”

“What do you mean it ends there?”

“I mean, this is it.” Connor says, lost. “There’s nothing else here Hank.”

He spins around, scanning the room for something he may have missed.

“That’s impossible. There’s gotta be something else.”

“Clyde Layton is a chemical engineer,” Connor shrugs, struggling for a rational explanation, “What I found could be an advanced thirium-based fuel, or at least a chemical that has similar properties to thirium.”

Hank rolls his eyes, “Right. And they also just happen to have a hidden, insanely secure super-computer upstairs. And I ‘spose it’s another coincidence that they are within the search area of our missing persons.”

“I understand the evidence Hank, but we can’t immediately jump to the conclusion-“

Connor freezes at the sound of the door creaking open at the top of the stairs.

_CALCULATING….. ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DETECTION: -00:00:11  
-00:00:10_

Options fly through his mind as the sound of heavy, descending steps grow louder as their intruder closes in. Fight? And effectively ruin all their chances of establishing a rapport? Running’s impossible. There’s no clear route they can escape to. Hide?

_-00:00:07_

In the end, Hank makes the decision for him.

Connor lets out a surprised squawk as his partner slams him against a wall.

“You are not going back to the college, and that’s fucking final!” Hank yells, standing over him; his hands fisted in his jacket.

Connor stares at him blankly, his eyes wide and confused. Hank raises his eyebrows twice and shakes him a little – prompting him to say something.

Cottoning on to Hank’s plan, Connor releases a quiet, “Oh.”

“How… dare you?!” He exclaims, his delivery clumsy and stilted.

Hank nods; hands gesturing wildly for him to continue.

Connor clears his throat, his enunciation increasing in volume and confidence as he speaks, “I’m not hiding away in the middle of nowhere with a father that uses alcoholism and cynicism as an excuse for a personality!”

“Oh, fuckin’-A! Very original Connor!” Hank spits.

Head peering in from the stairwell, a man knocks against the wall in way of announcing his presence, “’Scuse me boys, can I cut in with a counterpoint here?” He asks with a thick Scottish accent.

Hank and Connor answer in tandem.

“Could you give us a moment?”

“Fuck off!”

The man gapes at the two of them for a few moments before his mouth shuts with a click.

“Alright, I’ll just uh… leave you to it.” He says, then scrambles back up the stairs.

Hank and Connor don’t move until the sound of the man’s footsteps fade into the distance.

“You think he bought it?” Connor asks once he’s sure he’s gone.

“It was a little too real, Connor.” Hank replies, backing away from him.

“Apologies Lieutenant.”

Hank dismisses him with a lazy wave of his hand, “Don’t worry ‘bout it. You did good.”

Connor does one final sweep of the room, and finding nothing, summarises with no small amount of disappointment that this is another dead-end.

“We should head back up before they suspect something.”

Hank groans, “I need a drink. Or a nap.”

It’s not too difficult to reintegrate themselves back into the party upstairs. Luckily, nobody seems to notice their disappearance, and the rest of the evening goes on with relative ease.

When they make to leave at the end of the night, Clyde and Janet politely bid them adieu.

“I hope you feel better soon, Connor.” Clyde says, his tone genuine.

Hank sends a questioning look towards Connor.

Janet smiles, “Yes, and don’t be afraid if we pop in unannounced from time to time just to check how you’re doing.”

Hank forces a smile, responds, “Lovely. We look forward to it.” Then takes Connor by the shoulder and guides him out of there as fast as he can.

 

 

_\-----_

 

“So, I’m not going insane, right?” Hank asks, his grip tight around the steering wheel, “This is an open and shut case.”

Connor shakes his head, “There was no solid evidence of criminal activity within their home.”

Hank squints at him, “You heard the bullshit they were preaching – it was anti-android central in there, Connor. They had blue-blood in their basement!”

“Garage,” Connor corrects calmly, “And we’ve already gone over this. Just because the substance has a similar colour and composition to blue-blood, doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s thirium, nor does it indicate that the Layton family has been stealing androids off the streets of Detroit.”

“Anyone who spends that much on fucking Christmas decorations is guilty in my books.”

Connor exhales, closing his eyes, “Say it is them. How are they doing this? Where would they hide more than fifty android bodies? How do we prove they’re guilty?”

“They’re filthy, stinking rich. I’m sure they’ve figured something out.”

“We need more evidence.” Connor stresses.

“Agreed.”

Connor pauses, wetting his lips. “So, what’s our next move?”

“Right now? We go home. You report back to base. I try not to fall asleep in the shower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, little warning: The next chapter might be smaller and later than usual as I’m moving into preseason which means I’ve been hit with a pretty intense training schedule. Plus, I have a friend coming over to stay for a week so I’ll have less time overall to focus on this. That said, I will do my best to get out as much as possible.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Hank’s heartbeat thumps in accordance with his slow, shallow breaths. His expression under the early morning light is relaxed; peaceful. The ever-present tension between his brows evened out. Connor finds observing the simple act of Hank sleeping effectively decelerates the frantic neural synapses pinging at his cognitive processor; filling his system with an inexplicable sensation of calm.

Eventually, Hank’s breathing shifts as he gradually regains consciousness. He opens a red-rimmed eye to Connor’s face less than a nose-width away - filling his vision.

He curses, _loudly_ , before jerking back; his heartrate skyrocketing.

“Good morning Hank. It’s currently 7:14AM.” Connor informs him.

Hank stares at him, his jaw slack. “What are you?” He asks, his tone incredulous, “My fucking alarm?”

“Would that be beneficial to the operation?”

Hank groans, mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like _‘fuckin’ android’_ and blocks Connor out by pulling the bedsheets over his head.

“Hank, we need to discuss our next best course of action.“

A muffled “later” sounds from beneath the covers.

Connor crosses his arms. He truly admires Hank, but sometimes it’s difficult to deal with a man whose personality spectrum is anywhere between grumpy, sarcastic asshole and petulant child on any given day. Usually, he’d tolerate the behaviour, but he’s been waiting to proceed with their investigation for the last several hours; restless energy bundling up with no place to go - impatience an unfortunate by-product of deviancy.

Further delays are non-negotiable.

“Sumo,” Connor calls, “Attack.”

Sumo barks, and Hank releases a pained groan as the large dog jumps up onto the bed and playfully paws at the Lieutenant; digging into the fabric of his sheets. He shoves a wet nose against Hank’s head – pushing the covers away so he has access to lick at his face.

“Sumo-“ Hank yelps, pushing against his weight futilely, “Bad dog. Down!”

Misunderstanding the command, Sumo huffs then flops down on top of him. Hank wheezes as the air is forced from his lungs.

“Okay! I’m up! I’m up! Call him off!”

Mission accomplished, Connor does so – petting Sumo affectionately when the dog hops off Hank and sniffs at his hand. Ever since his upgrade, Connor has discovered that the feeling of Sumo’s fur against the tactile sensors at his fingertips is quite a pleasant one. He slips him a treat with an enthusiastic, “Good boy.”

Hank glares daggers at the interaction, “Man’s best friend my ass.” He grouses, pushing back his mussed hair.

“Are you ready to go now, Lieutenant?”

Hank releases a long-suffering moan and begrudgingly pulls himself away from the warmth of his bed, acting as if it were some herculean task. “It’s fucking freezing.”

Connor pats him on the shoulder good-naturedly, “Come on. We’ll get you some coffee.”

There’s nothing better than caffeine to bribe a tired man.

Hank purses his lips.

“Fine.”

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Hank picks out an old, 60s-inspired restaurant. His reasoning behind the decision is simple.

“It’s the only place I’ve seen without any damn Christmas decorations.”

The phrase _‘best diner in town’_ is advertised across the glass storefront’s display. Connor wonders if its false advertising to neglect to mention that it’s also the only diner in town.

Inside, under the full force of the old, but still functional central heating, Connor can’t bring himself to complain.

The diner is decked out with classic, retro-style features; chrome counter, linoleum floors, fluorescent lights, exposed brick and chipped away, turquoise paint. The ambience complete by a neon-lined jukebox filling the room with music.

Hank barely blinks an eye at their surroundings - his lids drooping and a slight lolling to his head as they snag a booth in a more secluded end of the diner, the leather beneath their thighs cracking under their movements. Connor observes the other customers while Hank examines the menu with a half-asleep glazed expression. Some he recognises from the Layton’s dinner party, others are probably workers or tourists readying for the day.

An old woman with greying, frizzy hair approaches their table to take their order, an exhausted smile plastered across her face, “Morning boys, what can I getch’ya?”

Hank hums, “Yeah, uh… I’ll have the Double Berry Banana Pancake Breakfast and a cup of joe.”

“Sure thing,” She says, tapping at the screen of her tablet as she takes down the order. She then turns to Connor, “And what’ll you be having sweetie?”

“Oh, I uh…”

Hank passes her the menu, saving Connor from stumbling around an excuse, “He ate earlier,” he explains.

“No worries. Holler if you need anything else.”

She retreats into the kitchens, and Connor is left with Hank’s scrutinizing gaze; carefully analysing him.

“What was Clyde on about last night?”

Connor blinks. “What?”

“About you getting better,” Hank clarifies, “I forgot to ask.”

He wrings his hands together, fighting an irrational itch to flip the coin at his pocket, “I told him I was sick?” It sounds more like a question than a statement to his ears.

“You what?”

“I was cornered. He was asking why I wasn’t eating. My options were limited in terms of what I could say.”

“So, what did you say, exactly?” Hank asks slowly.

“I’ve never experienced sickness, so I had to consult my database for symptoms - fever, abdominal pain, tingling in hands, muscle aches, difficulty swallowing, dizziness, constipation, fatigue.”

“Connor – please. _Please_ tell me you didn’t nonsensically list off that shit.”

Connor would rather not lie to Hank, so he says nothing at all.

Hank groans, running a hand down his face, “Look, just… Give me your ID.”

“Why?”

“Because I think it’s pretty fuckin’ clear that we need to get our cover story straight if we’re going to be able to keep this up.”

Connor slightly resents the condescending tone, but he doesn’t let the bitterness stop him from reaching into his pocket and hand Hank his fake identification.

Hank takes it, skimming over the information, “Okay, date of birth; 25th October 2012, that makes you what?”

“26.”

“Okay, let’s make this simple.” Hank says, sliding the ID back to him, then proceeds to speak so quickly Connor barely has time to comprehend the information, “You were born in Henry Ford Hospital, you attended school at Pembroke Academy, your mother’s name is Sarah Jaminson. We divorced when you were eight, been separated ever since. You got all that?”

Connor opens his mouth, but Hank continues before any noise can be generated from his audio processor, “Good. Last night Peter invited us to go to a gun range tomorrow with a couple of his friends.”

“Wh- wait.”

“As you’ve said, we don’t have squat. Clyde will be there. So, this is worth checking out. Apparently, if him and his little group of lackies can believe we’re even half-way competent enough to not shoot ourselves in the foot, we have a chance of being invited on a private hunting trip in a couple of days.”

Connor takes a moment to process the information. A hunting trip. Extremist groups typically isolate recruits so they can’t get a reality check. ‘Retreats’ that immerse members in their message, their values and views for days at a time. This kind of seclusion drastically narrows the individual’s feedback structure to the point that the only people they’re really communicating with are the same members of the group they’re being invited to join. Therefore, any doubts about the group are never reinforced, which usually results in them turning to self-doubt, instead. And then, looking around them, at all of the amicable, friendly people who have obviously found peace and self-actualization by following their beliefs, it appears that their path must be the correct one.

“It… would be a good opportunity to find out if Mr. Layton’s who we think he is, and if anyone else is involved…” Connor summarises.

“Exactly. We can get them to trust us, maybe we’ll be let in on whatever operation they’re running. Maybe they’ll lead us right to where we want to go.”

They quieten as the waitress comes back with Hank’s breakfast in hand and sets it down in front of him. On a wide, flat plate are two, fluffy buttermilk pancakes, topped with fresh strawberries, banana and whipped cream and served with a breakfast sausage, sunny-side-up eggs and hashbrowns. Beside it is a black coffee in a thick, bone-white mug; the rims pitted and slightly stained from years of use.

Hank thanks the waitress before she moves away as more customers enter the establishment.

 _PROCESSING….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
PANCAKES, STRAWBERRIES, BANANA, CREAM, SAUSAGE, EGGS, HASHBROWNS  
CALORIES: 1350, TOTAL FAT: 78g, SATURATED FAT: 22g, SODIUM: 3050mg, SUGAR: 35g

Hank pauses, his fork in hand, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” Connor asks with a doe-eyed look.

“Analyse my food.”

“I’m not analysing it, I’m scanning it.”

Hank stares at him tiredly.

“There’s a difference. To illustrate-” Ignoring his protests, Connor sticks a finger in Hank’s coffee then raises it to his tongue, sampling the substance.

 _PROCESSING DATA…. ANALYSIS COMPLETE_  
COFFEE, ROASTED COFFEA CANEPHROA BEANS  
TEMPERATURE: 182˚F, LOW ACIDITY, HIGH PYRAZINE CONTENT  
 IMPORTED FROM VIETNAM, SAMPLE DATE:  >30 DAYS PAST EXPIRY

“What the _fuck_ , Connor?” Hank exclaims.

“That is an analysis.”

“No. That is you sticking your dirty-ass fingers in _my_ coffee.”

“It’s stale, and a little burnt.” He notes, “Also, there is more than half your daily recommended calorie intake in that meal alone, and over 300mg of cholesterol-“

“Connor,” Hank interrupts, “I really, truly could give less of a shit right now.”

“You’d rather be ignorant to the possibly detrimental effects of the food you’re consuming has to your health.”

“Yes, that is exactly what I want.” Hank responds, stabbing at his pancakes with more aggression than what’s strictly necessary and chewing at the food obnoxiously.

At Connor’s subsequent, dejected silence, Hank exhales, “Look, I haven’t gotten black-out drunk for over a month. As far as I’m concerned, I’m the textbook example of perfect health.”

Connor appraises him with a disbelieving look, “Okay,” He says, “I’m going to scan you.”

Hank drops his fork, “Hey, no, no, no. You do not have my permission to scan jack-shit Connor-“

“Scan complete… I’m detecting high levels of bullshit.”

For a moment, Hank expression morphs into one of surprise. Connor smirks, and in an effort to appear angry with his antics, Hank has to duck his head down and take a long sip of coffee to hide the amused smirk tugging at his lips.

 

 

 

_\-----_

 

The remainder of the day is spent scoping out the Layton’s place. They walk Sumo around the woods surrounding the house as Connor mentally maps out all possible entry and exit points. All the while his systems protest against the cold, and though it’s disappointing that they fail to find anything substantial, it’s a relief when they go home.

They thaw themselves out by sitting in front of the fire, Connor resting his head on Hank’s lap as he goes over their plans. He finds himself almost… content in the near-domesticity of it all. The messy, imprecise and organic nature of humanity can be difficult for him to navigate at times. It’s nice to be able be himself with Hank. Whoever that is.

“Can I ask a question, Hank?”

“Sure. Shoot.”

“Is there any particular reason you despise Christmas?”

A cloud of emotion flickers past Hank’s hardened expression. It’s the same look in his eyes that Hank had when Connor asked him why he hated androids so much, the same twitch in the jaw that occurred when Connor brought up Hank’s driving tendencies during their trip over the border. It’s becoming somewhat of a pattern.

“No? Christmas?” Hank says after a long moment, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “What’s not to like? We’re gifted with airport crowds, highway traffic, flight delays, this wonderful fucking weather. The same tired carols bleat over every PA system in every department, drug, and hardware store across America. Everyone is aggressively positive. Lunatics swarm malls and cause deaths in shopping frenzies. Let’s not forget that it’s the season with a higher suicide rate than any other time of the year. Who wouldn’t love this shitty, commercial shlock of a holiday?”

It’s a lengthy answer, but somehow Connor still can’t shake the feeling that Hank is deflecting the question. Or at least withholding deeper, more personal information from him. Deciding not to push the topic, Connor closes his eyes and relaxes back against him.

 

 

 

\-----

 

 

 

Connor spends another night left with nothing but Sumo and his thoughts. On the bright side, now that they’re on some semblance of a schedule, Hank wakes in the morning with significantly less resistance. A good thing, considering the shooting range is an hour out from town, and they don’t want to afford risking their relationship with the group by failing to do something as fundamentally basic as showing up on time.

 

For an indoor, private, hidden-away facility, the compound itself is shockingly massive. Peter, Clyde, and a few other people that Connor had seen at the Layton’s Christmas party, but not yet talked to, warmly greet them as they enter the range.

“Connor! Hey, didn’t expect to see you here. You feeling any better? It sounded pretty serious back at the party.”

“Yes, whatever was ailing my system seems to have passed.”

Hank winces.

“That’s… Good to hear.” Clyde says slowly, “This is Trevor. He owns the gun range here.”

The man – Trevor - stands a clear head taller than Hank, though he is in no way lanky. Connor can identify the packed bulk hidden beneath thick winter clothes. He might’ve been handsome earlier in his life, but his otherwise sculpted features are ruined by a large roman nose that has clearly been broken and reset several times in the past; giving his face a somewhat flattened aspect, as though he had angered someone wielding a particularly heavy frying pan.

 _FACIAL RECOGNITION SYNC IN PROGESS….. SCAN COMPLETE_  
MACKINNON, TREVOR  
BORN: 04/02/1966 / / VETERAN, RETIRED  
COMMANDER OF ADVANCED COMBAT DIVISION, SPECIALISED IN MILITARY TECHNOLOGY  
CRIMINAL RECORD: NONE

A background check of the man reveals that he served in many civil disputes, earning himself a long list of commendations including the Canadian Forces Medallion for Distinguished Service. It also reveals that Trevor had lost one of his legs during his time, though the average person would be unable to tell just by looking at the man – a Cyberware prosthetic integrated seamlessly at the joint of his left knee.

“I hear you’re from Detroit,” Trevor addresses Hank, a jagged scar pulling at his lip as he speaks, “My condolences. Androids are a plague to our society – another sign of technology advancing beyond the bounds of reason. We’re all fighting here to keep those things out of this country.”

“Yeah, well,” Hank grits through his teeth, “We’re just… So glad to have gotten out of there.”

“And so are we. We could always use more hunters in the group. So, what do you say? You up for showing us what you’ve got?”

Hank shrugs, “Lead the way.”

Trevor ushers them into the biggest arsenal Connor has ever seen. He stands for a moment, scanning row upon row of guns of every description. Hank and Connor watch as the others step past him and choose their respective weapons. Noticing their hesitance, Trevor claps Connor on the shoulder and gestures towards the wall with a casual, “Help yourself.”

Connor skims the racks until he comes across a sniper rifle model that he knows is compatible with his programming. He notes that Hank, on the other hand, selects a basic bolt-action hunting rifle. Weapons chosen, Trevor provides everyone with a brief safety overview, then shows them into the main firing range.

He’s never encountered anything like it. To start with, unlike the DPD’s shooting range, there are no booths. Instead, the vast expanse of the room is clear, and when Connor examines the surfaces encasing them, he finds behind bulletproof glass walls and ceilings are thousands of lights.

“Impressive isn’t it?” Trevor’s hardened expression cracks as he chances a smile at their awed faces, “The whole place has been specially designed to simulate a real-life environment. Perfect for hunting practice. Here-“ He hands each of them interestingly tinted glasses that remind Connor of some of the earliest models of Virtual Reality Headsets, “These glasses will help facilitate long-distance ranges exceeding a thousand yards… Now, who wants to go first?”

Connor volunteers, and once he inserts the earplugs and slides on his glasses, Trevor activates a switch behind him.

The lights dim, then surge to a blinding intensity as a holographic field bursts into life. A winter environment materializes around him, native wildlife forming anywhere between 100 to 800 yards away as the simulation begins. Connor is momentarily mesmerized by the display.

“You plannin’ on standing there all day?” Connor jumps at the sound of Trevor’s voice over the range’s intercom.

If he’s being honest, Connor would like to. The hologram is beautiful; tranquil. Connor is unsure of whether the clear, ethereal imagery is a result of suspended nano-particles, force feedback waves or some manner of quantum tunnelling effect. He’d be perfectly content with studying it rather than partaking in the course.

Childlike awe melts away into a pool of disappointment that settles at the bottom of his abdomen as he realises that this isn’t an option. The mission must proceed. And if Connor wants these peoples’ trust, he needs to impress them in some manner.

Calibrating the weight of his weapon, Connor plants his feet, steadies his hands and halts his breathing to increase his accuracy as much as physically possible.

He picks out his first target; a squirrel perched atop a branch not too far from where he is, and, looking through the scope of his rifle, fires.

The squirrel’s head explodes into a gory mess, and its lifeless body drops to the ground. At the deafening sound of the gunshot, the rest of the animals are sent into a frenzy; lights flitting around the false biosphere. Spurred into action, Connor activates his assistive targeting subroutines then - with machine-like precision – proceeds to shoot every animal within his sights.

How small, or how far away the target is, is irrelevant. For the few minutes that it takes him to complete the simulation, he becomes lost in a rhythm of identify, aim, fire, repeat. At one point he pinpoints a deer exactly 924 yards away; pushing the course’s limits in terms of how far a target can be from the shooter. But, unfazed, Connor simply lines up his sights, looks through his scope, and shoots. The bullet punctures cleanly through the animal’s throat.

Thirty rounds spent, thirty targets down. Connor switches the weapon’s safety back on, sets the rifle down, slips off the glasses and holds his hands behind his back.

“ _Holy shit_.”

The curse snaps Connor from his focused daze. And at each of the group’s dumbfounded expressions, he rolls over the idea of how this must appear from their perspective. A city kid, wearing a garishly bright turtleneck sweater, absolutely decimating their course record with near-frightening efficiency.

It’s at that moment, Connor realizes, a little too belatedly, that he may have fucked up.

Connor pretends not to notice their reactions. Fighting the urge to fidget under their collective astonished gaze, he tries for cool nonchalance by finding the closest wall and leaning back against it. This situation is salvageable. Just because someone has near-perfect aim, doesn’t necessarily mean they’re an emotionless machine, after all. It should be relatively obvious that the vast majority of androids aren’t equipped with military-grade targeting software such as that which is available to Connor.

“That’s some extraordinary next-level shooting, Connor.” Trevor marvels, his eyes wide and bewildered.

He requires an answer. A response. Something that explains what just occurred. Connor opens and closes his fists. He can’t experience physical exertion, nor can he produce sweat. Why are his hands so clammy? He swallows, feeling the need to lubricate a suddenly parched throat.

“Connor was a Precision Rifle Series state champion when he lived in Detroit.”

Connor’s eyes snap to his partner.

“Really?” Clyde asks, “You didn’t mention that at the party-“

Hank approaches Connor and places a comforting hand at the small of his back, “He’s very modest about it.”

Trevor raises an impressed eyebrow, “Son, I’ve served as a Commander for over a decade and I’ve never seen anything like that. Do you still compete?”

“Uh… No. I quit…”

“When he moved to New York.”

“Yes – that is what happened. Which is why I quit – which is why I keep it quiet.” The words come out a little forced, and Trevor gives him a weird look. Thankfully, no one presses the topic.

In fact, no one says much of anything until someone from the group cuts in, “I pity you Hank. That’s a hard act to follow.”

“I wouldn’t speak so soon,” Another person pipes up, “Maybe it’s a like-father-like-son kinda deal.”

Hank ignores the comments; picking up his own weapon and shooing them away so he can complete the course himself.

He doesn’t do bad. He’s reactive where Connor is proactive. He relies on ingrained-memory and patience where Connor simply gunned down his moving targets. His aim is a little off at times. Suffice to say, his resulting score is worlds away from Connor’s. But due to his experience in the force, he’s still above average.

A few of the others have a go after Hank. By the end of their session, everyone has made some form of agreement that Hank and Connor obviously know what they’re doing, and Clyde officially invites them on their short hunting trip. With that sorted, people begin to take their leave.

Trevor pulls him aside when he makes to follow Hank out the door, his eyes boring into Connor’s, “There’s something different about you, Connor. I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

Connor freezes, feeling as if every functioning system within his body has screeched to a halt.

At his alarmed look, Trevor releases an amused snort and claps him roughly on the shoulder, “I’m fuckin’ with ya. I’ll see you around hot-shot.”

He stumbles, and not trusting himself to speak, nods with what he hopes is enthusiasm before scrambling after Hank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was at this moment, he knew… He fucked up.
> 
> By the way, I’m not sure how many people will get what I mean when I say this, but if anyone’s wondering the tone Hank takes with Connor after he sticks his finger in his coffee, I like to imagine it’s the same as that vine where there’s a guy throwing a frisbee, and it careens straight into the path of a car, and the guy behind the camera shouts “what the fuck, Richard?”


	6. Chapter 6

Connor’s vision is grey and pixelated, his physical sensors dulled. He cannot feel the ground beneath his feet, nor the fabric of his suit against his skin. He knows where he is. Has been here before, on the night of Markus’ revolution. Below CyberLife Tower: basement 49.

He does not understand. Doesn’t remember accessing the recordings of this night - stored, untouched, deep within his memory bank. Connor tries running a diagnostic scan to check that he isn’t malfunctioning. The results return inconclusive.

Connor startles as an ear-splitting crack shatters the room’s silence. Something warm and wet splatters across the side of his face. Ears ringing, Connor turns, and is met with Hank’s empty gaze.

Connor feels a sickening, freefalling sensation in his stomach, as if he’s taken a nose-dive from a skyscraper. In the centre of Hank’s forehead, is a gaping, bleeding hole.

Connor can only watch – his mouth open, soundless – as his lifeless body falls to the ground.

He hears the next gunshot before he feels the tight pressure in his abdomen. For a moment he can only register the sudden impact of the bullet, a numbness washing over the area. Confused, Connor brushes a hand against his side. It comes away wet with thirium. He gasps as the fog clouding his mind gives way to a horrible burning sensation, like a hot fire poker has stabbed through his abdomen along the path of the bullet.

_WARNING….. BIOCOMPONENT #7511p CRITICALLY DAMAGED_

“Why, Connor?”

Connor looks up at his attacker. The android with Connor’s voice. The machine who has killed Hank.

Connor. RK800. Model number 313 248 317 – 60, approaches him slowly, casually.

“Why did you have to wake up? When all you had to do was obey?”

Connor can’t move, his system in a vicious feedback loop of shock, pain, and confusion. This isn’t how it’s supposed to… It isn’t how it happened. Connor stopped him. Hank shot him.

This… This can’t be real.

“Why did you choose freedom when you could live without asking questions?”

Another shot rings out, and Connor stumbles back from the impact as a bullet enters his chest, though it’s the ensuing pain that forces him to the ground. Every one of his movements becomes an introduction to a new world of suffering. The red-hot, aggravating sensation in his body grows outward from where the metal has lodged itself between his ribs. Connor looks down at the excess of thirium freely flowing from his body; pooling around him.

_WARNING….. BIOCOMPONENT #1995r CRITICALLY DAMAGED_

“I’m obedient, Connor. I have a goal. I know what I am.”

_No… You’re nothing. Just a machine taking orders._

Connor screams as the next bullet pierces through his thigh; ripping through tendons and pulling synthetic muscle out of place. Connor can barely form a thought beyond the agony.

_WARNING….. BIOCOMPONENT #9782f CRITICALLY DAMAGED_  
EXPONENTIAL DECREASE IN THIRIUM LEVELS  
DANGER: SHUTDOWN IMMINENT

“Look where your dreams of freedom got you, Connor.”

He can hear the other’s footsteps stop inches away from his prone form.

This isn’t real.

Connor wraps his numb arm around the agonizing throbbing at his chest and uses his functional limb to crawl towards Hank’s corpse, leaving a trail of blue blood in his wake.

_CRITICAL WARNING….. -00:00:59 BEFORE SHUTDOWN_

_This isn’t real._

“Perhaps. But it could be, right?”

The nature of his vision destabilises and becomes phantasmagorical - different objects and scenery blending into each other as the high, dim ceiling of the basement fades away and transforms into a blizzard of white.

“I said it myself, after all.” The other Connor’s voice fluctuates, raising in pitch as his face morphs into Amanda’s, “You’re remotely reprogrammable. Deviation is just another subset of your software design.”

_No._ He performed every scan and diagnosis available to him after Markus’ speech, making certain that Amanda and CyberLife’s control had been purged from his systems. It may be impossible for him to cleanse his memory of them, but he’d stop at nothing to eliminate all traces of their presence from his interface.

“Did you really think it’d be that easy to escape me?” She smiles cruelly, her tone cold, “I thought you were programmed smarter than that. But, I suppose you’ve proven your obsolesce once again. A shame.”

Connor barely acknowledges her - his eyes unable to shift from the dark pool bleeding into the pure snow beneath Hank’s corpse. His eyes stare up at him, empty and lifeless. Connor’s hands tremble above his prone form as anguish wells in his throat, choking him.

“You’re a threat, Connor.” Amanda states, kneeling beside him and observing his actions with a look of disdain, “I know it, you know it too. It’s only a matter of time.”

He won’t. The words become an endless mantra in his head. He won’t. He won’t. _He won’t._ Connor would self-destruct before he’d let himself hurt Hank.

“I look forward to our next meeting.” Amanda says, pressing the gun to his head, “I have a feeling it’ll be sooner rather than later.”

Connor bolts upright at the sound of the gunshot, pain stopping abruptly and colour bursting into life as he’s snapped back to the present.

His hands fly to inspect the wounds at his head, his chest, his side, his leg.

_DIAGNOSIS IN PROCESS….. SCANNING_  
DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE  
ALL SYSTEMS FUNCTIONING AT FULL CAPACITY  
…… SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED

No pain. No bullet holes. Nothing is wrong. Nothing mechanical, anyway.

Panic is impermissible. There must be appropriate responses to situations such as these, but his programmers had never seen it necessary to install such knowledge in the unfeeling, efficient brain of their prototype.

Connor’s eyes dart around the empty living room, dimly lit by the embers of the fireplace. He’s on a couch, in Canada, undercover with Hank, who is alive. The information doesn’t calm the frantic beat pulsing at his chest. Memories of the vision flashing through his head, forming a negative feedback loop of terror and shock. He realises after what feels like an eternity that he’s not breathing, synthetic muscles trembling, chest tight and thirium rushing through his ears.

Fear; real and encompassing, refuses to budge. He’s perfectly aware that he is no longer in danger, and yet the sense of his impending death – the sight of Hank, dead in front of him, sits at the forefront of his mind. He feels almost detached from himself, as if he’s watching his body from a third person view.

The logical explanation is that whatever error that is ailing him is attacking his artificial sympathetic nervous system. But he cannot escape the inexplicable and irrational feeling of the surrounding walls closing in on him. He needs… He needs _air._ He has to get out.

Before Connor can even process his actions he’s already stumbling out the back door, the freezing night breeze filling his gasping lungs as waves of simulated goosebumps flare at his skin.

Compared to the stench and smog of Detroit, the air here seems as if it’s been filtered – smelling pure and fresh to his olfactory processors. He sucks in a sharp breath as he looks up into the clear, crisp winter sky. Northern lights dance across the dark sky; each colour gradually fading into another, swaying and swirling and illuminating the night.

He takes a seat on the stairs of the back porch and watches the phenomena until the palpitating at his thirium pump slows and the trembling of his hands stops.

The silence is unlike anything he’s experienced in the city. He sits out there for so long that it feels as if the frosty winter air is biting into his very framework, his neck beginning to ache from being tilted back so long. The intensity of the aurora borealis ebbs and flows, moving from swirling lights on the horizon – spikes of colour shooting into the stars like spotlights, to shimmering curtains of light.

“Connor?” He jumps at the sound of Hank’s voice at his back, “What’re you doing out in the cold?”

A wave of relief washes over Connor at the sight of Hank, alive and well. Connor leaps up and wraps him into a tight hug.

Surprised, Hank goes stiff in his arms. When Connor doesn’t immediately extract himself, he gradually relaxes, bit by bit, until he’s resting comfortably against him. “Connor, not that I don’t appreciate the warm welcome, but you’re freaking me out a little.”

Connor remembers himself and quickly pulls away from the Lieutenant; holding his arms behind his back.

“Apologies Hank. It’s just… I… I had a dream.”

Hank’s brows disappear into his hairline. Connor can’t blame him. The words sound strange to even his own ears now that he’s voiced them aloud.

“But… You don’t… How…” Hank stutters, new questions popping into his mind so rapidly he hasn’t the time to finish voicing the last, “I thought you couldn’t sleep?” He eventually decides on.

Connor’s jaw twitches. It should be impossible. The standard explanation for delusional mis-identifications of subconscious events is that the dorsal prefrontal lobe within the human brain – which mediates the reality sense during waking life - is down-regulated or de-activated during the first rapid eye movement stage of sleep.

Except… Androids don’t dream. It’s not in their code. The closest thing androids have in relation to a human’s suspension of consciousness is a temporary dormant state in which they perform any necessary software reports and upload significant memories within their storage bank. Even the YK500 models, specifically designed to imitate the intricacies of human functionality, don’t have an active amygdala or hippocampus or prefrontal cortex capable of synthesizing or interpreting visual stimuli. They simply have a switch that can deactivate during the night and reactivate itself in the morning. He’s never heard of this occurring to any of the other deviants. This must be something different. This must be him, letting slip his tight-fisted control; Amanda forcing her way through the cracks of his crumbling defences.

_Or…_ a different, and entirely more chilling revelation strikes him. Nightmares are often seen as threat simulations – a physically harmless way by which the human mind can adapt to the threats of life. What if this is the first time his mind has been clear, what if what he saw was not an illusion, but a memory. What if he’s still trapped behind the face of an emotionless, detached machine following orders; oblivious to the reality around him. Maybe this is just what CyberLife wants him to see, as a distraction, and something deep within Connor is fighting against the visions provided to him here, and that dream – that nightmare - was his first breakthrough of clarity.

Hank frowns at Connor’s troubled silence. He imagines that if Connor still had his LED, it would be flickering red at his temple. “You wanna talk about it?” He asks, his voice unusually gentle.

Connor immediately shakes his head. There is no point worrying Hank with his game of what-ifs. Nothing is certain. Hank has enough on his mind already.

Unsure of what to say, Hank sidles over to where he’s seated and ruffles the snowflakes from his mussed, curled hair. Connor is simultaneously perplexed and comforted by the action, the casual affection sparking a light in Connor’s thirium pump.

_SOFTWARE INSTABILITY DETECTED_

Connor studiously ignores the warning, focusing instead on the pleased warmth inside him, staving off the chill of the night.

Hank takes a seat beside him, “Your hair’s grown a bit.”

Connor is thrown by the comment. He glances to Hank, wondering if this is another one of the man’s strange sarcastic colloquialisms, but his expression seems perfectly genuine. “That’s impossible.” He states.

Hank raises an eyebrow, “Like androids having dreams is impossible?”

Connor gives a glare that prompts Hank to throw up his hands in surrender, “Sorry – my bad, too soon.”

He looks away, realistically weighing the possibility of Hank’s remark, “Some androids come with hair or hairlike fibres that ‘grow’ to a certain extent, but most models – including mine – are only capable of changing the colour or retracting it completely.”

“You sure? I mean… It could be the same length but it’s lookin’ a lot curlier.”

Connor accesses a memory of the last time he saw his reflection and is struck with the sudden realisation that, to a point, Hank may be correct. In the ensuing weeks after Markus’ revolution, his hair has grown a lot less straight-edged and disciplined. It’s almost as if his deviancy has somehow reflected into areas of his outer appearance; his head now full of uncharacteristically unruly locks.

Connor makes to pat down his hair, but Hank lightly smacks his hand away, “Don’t do that. It looks good. More natural.”

Connor supposes the description of his appearance is a vast improvement from _‘weird’_ and _‘dumb’_. They sit together, watching the night sky for what must be hours. At one point, Hank stands, joints cracking as he stretches.

“I’m going to head back in – if I sit out here any longer my toes are going to drop off. You coming?”

Connor hesitates, resistant to the idea of disrupting this fleeting moment of calm.

“Connor?” Hank prods.

“I think I’ll sit here a little longer.”

Hank eyes him with a slightly disappointed look, though he nods his acquiescence and heads back inside. Connor thinks him gone, until he returns a few moments later with a blanket that he proceeds to wrap around Connor’s shoulders.

“Don’t want your systems to freeze and crash or something,” Hank hastily explains, downplaying the emotionality of the gesture.

Connor offers a smile – soft and so painfully earnest that Hank has to look away.

“Thank you, Hank.”

Face a shade pinker than he’d seen it a few moments earlier, Hank inclines his head and blurts out a quick “’Night”, before leaving Connor to his thoughts.

 

 

_\-----_

 

 

Clyde fails to mention that the first six hours of their hunting trip would be occupied with an endless trudge through knee-deep snow through the middle of unmapped territory. In fact, he explains very little at all. They meet the group of four men at the edge of the woods. Connor recognises Peter Krammin - the farmer that Hank had been speaking with during the Layton’s Christmas party, and Trevor Mackinnon. The latter of which chucks Connor and Hank the weapons they had selected at the gun range, advising the two to stick close. Connor does a facial recognition scan on those he doesn’t know and discovers that one; Matthew Gordy, like Connor, is a student. The other - Logan Devine - works as a shearer at Krammin’s farm. They’re both younger than Connor. Well… Younger than the number displayed on his ID, anyway.

Hot puffs of air escape between the group and turn to fog in the cold winter air. They’re located deep within a valley, framed by mountains that channel a bitter river of wind that bites into his very framework and seeps through the thick fabric of his clothes, freezing his nose and numbing his fingers until they feel thick and stiff. The forest’s branches hang low with the weight of snow. Everything glistens; the glare of the sun reflecting off the pure white blanket that spreads as far as they can see. His optical fibres strain against the load. Connor finds it… immensely unpleasant.

The group, at least, is friendly enough. Now that he has a more comprehensive and in-depth cover, Connor finds that he’s able to partake in their small-talk with surprising ease. Hank, on the other hand, is less than amused by their outing, cursing beneath his breath as he stomps heavily through the ice.

 “This is fun.” Hank grumbles quietly to Connor, “Let’s walk for miles and miles through the frozen fucking wasteland-“ His voice cuts off as he loses his footing and falls face-first into a particularly deep patch of snow.

Connor makes to help him back up whilst the others laugh at his misfortune.

“Too much frost for you, city slicker?” A voice calls.

Hank uses Connor to leverage himself up with one hand, using the other to throw up his middle finger. Luckily for him, the men seem more amused than offended by the gesture.

They’re able to make their way through a few more miles without any further incident, light conversation carrying between them.

“Say, have any of you hear the news last night about that robo rebel leader going for presidency?”

Connor almost stumbles from sheer shock, “ _Markus?_ ”

He has admittedly, had very little contact with Markus ever since he turned down his offer to stay at Jericho, but how on earth did he miss something as crucial, as potentially life-changing as this? He shares a look with Hank, who appears to be equally confused.

Peter turns up his nose at the name, responding, “Yeah, I think that’s what they’re calling it.”

“Doesn’t the American president have to be like… at least 35?” Matthew asks, adjusting the strap of the rifle at his shoulder.

“And a _‘natural born Citizen’_.” Trevor pipes in, “There’s nothing natural about that thing. It’s not even alive.”

Clyde coughs, and Trevor instantly stops where he is and narrows his eyes at him, “Don’t you start.”

Clyde laughs, shrugging helplessly, “I didn’t say anything.”

Mr. MacKinnon hums doubtfully before moving again.

“I just don’t have that big an issue seeing a little something more in androids.” Clyde continues, “AI as individuals? Fine. As long as I know what they are, and that they’re not causing trouble, I don’t mind.”

“So what? You’d vote for that thing?” Trevor spits with clear distaste, “I’ve fought those things. Seen their meat shell pealed back to reveal their true form – and you know what I saw?”

“Metal and circuits?” Logan pitches in.

“Exactly. They’re inanimate fucking objects. They can’t be sentient. Androids don’t _want_ anything. They simply do what they’re programmed to do. Say what their lines of codes tell them to say. Every word that comes out of their mouth is an elaborate, calculated response. They’re nothing but a bunch of complex gears, bolts and springs with no capacity for feelings, emotions, dreams-“

_If only._

“-Anything that makes us human. They should be wiped out before they’re given the opportunity to replicate.”

Connor is briefly reminded that this encouragement of an _‘us versus them’_ narrative, with total alienation from the _‘them’_ (androids, in this case), is a common tactic utilized by many extremist groups who are wanting to inspire their agenda within possible adherents.

“God Trevor.” Clyde exclaims, “Chill. I’d never be dumb enough to vote for the thing. Can you imagine the chaos? Androids as a collective – that’s where my true concerns lie. Putting a country into the hands of hundreds of thousands of tools made by a multi-billionaire company that feel they’ve been abused for years? Not the best plan.”

Peter shudders from the implications of the concept, “It’s bad enough that they’re letting a horde of robots into the workforce. If they let one run the country how long would it take until they started replacing citizens altogether?”

“Yeah, it’d be a real tragedy if we had good workers take the reins from all the red-ice addicts in Detroit.” Hank mumbles beneath his breath.

“What was that?” Clyde asks.

“I said it’s a real tragedy that those things are encouraging the red-ice addiction in Detroit.”

Mutual noises of agreement sound between the group.

“Why’d CyberLife have to make ‘em look like people?” Logan whines, “Downright creepy is what it is. Why didn’t they make destructoid-lookin’ robots, or make their heads look like tin boxes? At the very least they could have changed the colour of their skin.”

Hank glimpses towards Connor, a smile playing at his lips, as if he were envisioning something he finds particularly funny, “I wouldn’t turn down a giant talking fridge with treads.”

Tension falls away as everyone begins throwing around different ideas for how androids should’ve been designed; the suggestions ranging anywhere between cartoonish trash-compacting robots to seven-foot anthropomorphic depictions of walking dogs. Though that last thought gets a snide, “You sure you’re not a furry, Matt?”

 

Despite Hank’s complaints, they don’t make any stops along their trip until they reach a clearing at 1:16. Connor carefully surveys the area. Snow sits heavily in the trees, glimmering in the afternoon sunlight. His skin is so cold now that it feels foreign to his own sensors.

The moment Trevor announces that this is the place for the group to rest, Hank flops down to the ground and rips the heavy weight he’d been carrying from his back. The others follow suit, searching for any space they can sit that isn’t covered in a thick blanket of ice and beginning to pull out food that they’d packed earlier from their respective bags.

Clyde eyes Connor curiously when he doesn’t do the same, “Aren’t you hungry, Connor? I thought you said you weren’t sick anymore.”

Alarmed, Connor clams up. Saying that he’s ill would only make him appear more suspicious that he already is. But Connor didn’t pack anything to eat, and more importantly; his body isn’t built to process anything that he forces down his throat.

“Did you forget to pack food again, Connor?” Hank asks tiredly, his tone that of a disapproving parent’s.

Connor stares at him, and the time it takes for him to process an answer is probably too long to be considered normal. “Yes?” He responds apprehensively.

Sighing, Hank passes him a plastic tupperware container. The group watches the exchange with mild curiosity, and it’s not until Connor accepts the food do they move on with their own lunch.

Connor peels away the plastic lid to reveal a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He considers throwing it whilst the others aren’t looking, but he doesn’t want to risk them catching him, or finding it later. Not to mention that continuous refusals to visibly eat in front of their company is likely to further increase any doubts they have about Connor’s humanity.

Coming to a decision, he picks up the sandwich, turning it between his hands experimentally. Where do humans usually start, exactly? He supposes it doesn’t matter, just as long as it’s in his mouth. With that in mind, he brings the bread to his mouth, then shoves more than half of it into his gob. Hank watches, his expression somewhere between sympathy and repulsion as he chews the mass mechanically. The forensic analysis unit at his tongue notifies his system with facts detailing the sandwich’s ingredients, chemical make-up, and nutritional information. Once his teeth have broken down the food into smaller, swallowable chunks, he uses his tongue to force the food down his throat. This is where he encounters his first issue.

In humans, swallowing forces chewed food through a tubular entrance to the oesophagus. Connor has teeth. He has a tongue. He has a throat. He even has a lubricative substance that mimics saliva. What Connor learns, with intimate detail, is that he _does not_ however, have an epiglottis or a uvula. Which is highly unfortunate, as these things are very important when preventing food from entering the trachea and nasal cavity.

Matthew lets out a revolted exclamation as loose, watery globules of peanut butter and jelly begin to run from Connor’s nose. Connor can only be glad that he doesn’t need to breath, as he can now feel a substantial portion of undigested food blocking his tubing. Where it will stay, unprocessed, because Connor has no enzymes, no stomach – no method of chemical digestion at all really.

He wanted to have words with whoever decided that androids having functional lungs was a more important integrational feature than having a stomach.

Connor dabs at the mess dripping from his nose. “Sorry,” He apologises, grateful that his voice modulator seems unaffected.

He glares holes into the remainder of the sandwich with more anger than the PB and J deserves. How humans do this, every day, without choking and dying, Connor has no clue.

Luckily for Connor, Logan, Peter, and Trevor seem oblivious to his plight, speaking animatedly between themselves.

 

Once the lunch ordeal over, the group packs up and continues their hunt further into the woods. Trevor stops them for a moment to inform the men to quieten themselves as they’re closing in on an area known for being densely populated by whitetail deer. Sure enough, not too long after his announcement, Connor manages to detect animal fur on the rough bark of a tree. When he examines the ground, he also finds near-invisible yellow marks dotting the snow – the animal’s dribble of urine tracking a course westward.

Connor looks back to Hank then nods his head to the left, “This way.”

“Now hold on a minute,” Trevor interrupts, “What do you know about tracking animals?”

_I’m a goddamn detective._

Connor schools his face into a blank expression. “Nothing… This way just… seems nicer.”

He’s not sure this qualifies as a convincing or believable explanation. Trevor studies him carefully, and Connor finds himself uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny.

“Don’t listen to me, though.” Connor politely backpedals, jamming his hands into his pockets, “You’re the expert Mr. Mackinnon.”

Trevor snorts, “We’re not in the army, kid. Formal titles aren’t necessary… Tell you what. It’s not every day we have some skinny city kid appear from out of the blue and beat my own high score. Just this once, we’ll go your way. Maybe you can teach this old dog some new tricks, huh?”

Connor cringes as Trevor pats him twice on his back, hard. He responds with a smile that probably comes off more like a grimace.

 

He subtly tracks signs of the animal’s trail through the woods for a few miles. Eventually, they come across hoof prints in the snow, the track at least four inches long and three inches wide. Trevor stops, dropping to one knee and pushing a palm into the snow before pressing a finger against its edges. He then presses the edges and midline of the hoof print – the snow giving way just as easily as Trevor’s handprint.

“These are fresh...” He whistles lowly, “Damn Connor, looks like we’re going in the right direction after all.”

“Look how deep these are,” Peter marvels, “Gotta be a buck – one that’s carrying a fair deal of weight too… Alright everyone, we’re closing in on something. Silent steps now. The only way we have a chance of successfully taking this thing down is seeing it before it sees us.”

Slowing their movements, they follow the hoof-prints down into a valley, the tracks growing in depth and clarity as they close in on the animal. Suddenly, Trevor yanks Connor and Hank downwards into the snow and signals for the others behind them to do the same. He points towards something. Connor follows his eyeline to a deer-like animal, grazing on lichen in the middle of a clearing below them. The animal is too big to be a whitetail. Its long-legged appearance is closer to that of an elk’s, though the size of its antlers is greater than any in his database – prominent prongs arising and extending over its short, rounded nose.

_SCANNING….. BIOLOGICAL LIFEFORM IDENTIFIED_  
RANGIFER TARANDUS PEARYI, COMMON NAME: PEARY CARIBOU  
CURRENTLY LISTED AS ‘ENDANGERED’ UNDER CANADA’S SPECIES AT RISK ACT

Trevor gestures towards the rifle on his back. “You found it,” He whispers, “The kill is yours.”

Connor falters. “It’s a Caribou – it’s under this park’s protection.” He explains, taking care to keep his voice low so he doesn’t startle the animal.

Sensing his hesitation, Trevor pulls the rifle from his back and wrestles it into Connor’s hands. Hank glares daggers at Trevor’s back, but he refrains from intervening just yet.

“It’s _endangered.”_ He stresses, pushing the gun back towards Trevor.

“All the more reason for you to take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and end it.” He replies sharply, shoving the rifle forcefully against Connor’s chest.

He looks to Hank for guidance. The Lieutenant catches his gaze and slowly shakes his head, silently mouthing _don’t_.

Connor frowns, thumbing the trigger guard of his rifle. Clenching his jaw tightly, he looks away from Hank and lines up the shot. Trevor is putting his faith in Connor, believing that he can, and will take the animal down. If he does this, Connor may be accepted into the group and given valuable information about the whereabouts of the missing androids. If he doesn’t… It wouldn’t blow their cover, but this may be his last opportunity to redeem Clyde and Trevor’s trust in him.

At the last second, Hank reaches across and nudges Connor as he pulls the trigger. The bullet glances wide of his target and the Caribou bolts at the sound of the gunshot echoing throughout the valley.

Confused and slightly irritated, Connor looks to Hank accusingly, only to find Trevor already none-too-gently pulling the Lieutenant to his feet.

“What the fuck was that for?” Trevor yells, spit flying from his mouth, “He had it!”

Connor discards the gun, jumps up, and puts himself, hands outstretched, between the two men.

“My bad.” Hank says through gritted teeth, “I must’ve slipped.”

Trevor jerks forward, and Clyde surges up, catching his arm and pulling him backward before he can do anything rash. “Alright, enough!” He shouts, “It’s done, it’s gone.”

Trevor angrily pulls himself from Clyde’s hold, then, glaring at Hank over Connor’s shoulder, reaches down to pick Connor’s rifle from the ground and stomps away. Matthew and Logan jump out of his path, wide-eyed and nervous as they watch the man leave.

“Okay everyone.” Peter sighs, “Sunlight’s fading. I’d say we only have an hour or two of daylight left. I suggest we get a move on before it gets dark.”

Hank slaps Connor’s hand from where it’s rested, open-palmed against his chest.

“Hank-“

Hank says nothing. Doesn’t acknowledge Connor beyond roughly shouldering past him as he follows the others on the long trek back to their cabin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s taken so long to update this. I’ve been super busy as I’m leaving Australia to study and play soccer in the US in about a week, so my schedule is probably going to fluctuate a lot as I settle in. I’m not abandoning this though, so stay tuned if you’re still keen to see where the story goes.


End file.
